


The Green Man and the Gwynbleidd

by DameFrostyFace



Series: The Green Man and the Gwynbleidd [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Anal Sex, Crush at First Sight, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Multi, Mutual Pining, My First Fanfic, Oral Sex, Pining, Psychological Trauma, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 132,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameFrostyFace/pseuds/DameFrostyFace
Summary: Basically a re-write of Witcher 2, Witcher 3, Hearts of Stone and Blood and Wine during which Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, and Iorveth grow feelings for one another, beginning at the beginning when they two first meet during the Witcher 2. Largely unbeta'd, but occasionally checked and edited after publishing.  Format alternates perspectives between the two main characters. Some dialogue taken directly from the games, as these are re-writes of existing scenes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Iorveth, Iorveth - Relationship
Series: The Green Man and the Gwynbleidd [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709218
Comments: 125
Kudos: 118





	1. Confused Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive any formatting issues, I don't know what I'm doing. All characters listed will show up eventually.

A century on when he told this story for the hundred thousandth time, when little children who called him "Granda Gerald" and "Uncle Geralt" in sweet little voices crawled over his knees people still expected the most memorable part of that chapter of his life to be the war, or the death of his king, or even bearing witness to one of the last dragons in the world. But no, the thing which always started the story for him was the sound of a flute. When he heard that tune, it all came rushing back to him as if it had happened yesterday. He could feel the crunch of the sand under his feet, hear the waves of the shore lapping gently against his boots, the shade that the cliffside and trees growing on and over it provided them that first day on the outskirts of Temeria.

The deep aching feeling in his gullet followed him off the boat with Triss and Vernon in tow. He wasn't truly present. A distance had been growing between Triss and himself long before the war started, the same aching void that existed before he woke up at Caer Moren, the first and only home he'd ever known. It was filled with an uncertainty he didn't like. Triss was part of it somehow, and the Gerald lost and drowning in that black sea was slowly starting to surface. He didn't like the feelings that version of Gerald evoked.

The shrill and sweet melody jolted Geralt out of his dark reverie. He'd fallen behind his companions, and they'd clearly not yet heard what he had. It sent a strange thrill up his spine, tickling at his memories again. Though he could not recall why he knew, this was the feeling of destiny. 

The tune drifting through the branches would haunt Geralt of Rivia until his dying day. 

It wasn't a terribly complicated tune. It didn't need to be. During his travels, Gerald had heard tell of men in Zerrikania using flutes to charm snakes into twirling and swaying to the music. The white wolf felt very much like one of these serpents. Something in him yelled to stop walking, to shout to Triss, to demand Roche stop, but by some sorcery, his feet continued, and his head filled with the sights and sounds of the wood around him.

It was a perfect day. Sun filtered through the canopy in golden shoots and arrows slung from the quiver of some blessed god. Slivers of blue could be glimpsed, so bright it nearly hurt one's eyes. He could hear others' footsteps on the cliff above the path where the trio walked, bowstrings cocking. Danger lurked in the forest gloom, but the thing that mattered most was finding the source of the music.

Triss and Vernon had heard the music by now, both trying to see who was producing it. A bright flash of light blinded the three simultaneously and silhouetted a slender man perched upon a branch. Geralt blinked the spots from his eyes and felt a new and terrifying sensation. It felt as if a wraith had reached through his back to wrap its icy hands around his heart. 

Geralt could ascertain no reason for his sudden dread. The elf, for elf it was, perched on a large tree that had fallen over on the upper banks and landed on a tall boulder, creating an organic archway over the sandy path. He had the poise of a courtier on a chaise lounge and wore a turban on his head very conspicuously covering his right eye. Geralt and company drew ever closer, close enough to be a stone's throw. There was a face that would etch itself into Geralt's memory for all time.

A face that Vernon was apparently already familiar with.

Vernon Roshe threw his arm out to stop Triss and Geralt from progressing any further, mouth agape in shock. "That's... no, it can't be."

The as-yet-unidentified figure rose to his feet and began addressing Roshe, particularly, in a voice that filled Geralt's ears. "Vernon Roshe, Special Forces Commander, Servant of the Temerian King. Responsible for the pacification of the Mahakaman foothills, hunter of elves, a murderer of women and children." He began to clap sarcastically, his leather-bound hands muted in the air. "Twice-decorated on the field of battle-"

"Iorveth!" Roshe interrupted.

Geralt heard very little after that. The name rang in his head like a bell, over and over. Iorveth, Iorveth, Iorveth, Iorveth… 

Roshe and Iorveth sparred enough for Geralt to pick up that the other man, that Iorveth, was a Scoia'tel, an important man, that he was very dangerous that he had had something to do with the killing of Roshe's former king. Another violent man with violent goals, not unfamiliar or uncommon in the witcher's line of work. Still, he could not prevent his mind from scanning every inch of the elf. Interest and curiosity whispered in Geralt's ear. Why did he cover his face? Missing an eye, surely. What did his scars look like? The delicate tattoo-work of branches and flowers crawling over Iorveths' shoulder and neck led to even further speculations of what he might look like under that heavy green coat.

Geralt came too quickly enough to hear Triss ask him quietly what they should do.

"Ah… Whatever we do, we need the elf alive, try not to hurt him." A strange thing to say about someone capable of executing a complicated plot for regicide. If Triss agreed, she said nothing and simply requested Geralt come up with a diversion. 

Geralt did his best. Somewhere, space and time split, timelines diverged, and something new and strange was born. 

Geralt channeled every ounce of politeness he had, partially due to these strange new thoughts, and partly due to the six or seven archers hiding in the bushes that neither Triss nor Roshe had noticed. Witcher senses did have their perks. 

"I would like to mention I'm not a dh'oine. Same as the other witcher you just mentioned." Geralt flinched internally at how sarcastic he sounded. "Whatever problems you have with Roshe, and I know he's an annoying prick, you have to give him points for being in the presence of a nonhuman. We were on a boat, and he didn't try and stab me at all, but you've got six arrows pointed at our heads." 

Roshe momentarily forgot that Geralt had just insulted him and frantically looked around for archers he would have no chance of ever noticing. 

The elf's eye narrowed.

And he jumped.

Iorveth was nearly nimble as Geralt, landing with barely a sound on the soft sand. He walked directly past Roshe as the human fumbled for something to do. Iorveth pushed Rosche out of the way and came right up to the witcher. Geralt noted that he had to look up a bit to stare Iorveth in the eye.

"You're right, vatt'ghern, but you are unlike him in one very particular way." His voice was much softer now, and yet still felt as if it filled all portions of Geralt's world. "You side with those who are unlike us, who draw the lines in the sand. You side with the humans who would drive those like you and I to extinction. Their ears are rounded, their years are short, they breed like vermin, though thankfully, they expire quickly." Geralt could smell him. Water, mineral-like, as in a cave. Crushed fresh green leaves. Verbena. Roses. Leather. He smelled like a complicated man who loved beautiful things and lived rough. Geralt could relate to that.

Iorveth continued, and Geralt starred in rapt attention. "We have spent four hundred years trying to prove superiority over the shape of an ear. And here you are, in-between the two of them. Rounded ears, yet strange eyes. Some of your brethren die quickly, some of you live long enough to rival elfkind. Your loyalties are truly what sets you apart, vatt'gern."

Quick as a thought, Iorveth had a knife against Geralt's throat. The witcher did not flinch once, eyes locked on Iorveth's. "I wonder if you bleed like your human friends do, too."

The entire forest held its breath. Geralt released it. "The Kingslayer is amongst you. I do have human friends, and I help them where loyalty says I must. Witcher code's complicated. We've come for the Kingslayer." 

Iorveth stepped back, and Roshe re-sheathed his half-drawn sword. Geralt heard several bowstrings relax slightly. 

"Then we are at cross-purposes, vatt'ghern. The Kingslayer is under my protection, and I'll not hand over a guest." The left corner of his mouth twitched, threatening a smile. "Elf code can be just as complicated."

Geralt snorted, but his face remained the same placid mask of mild annoyance it always was. "You're an old elf in a young elf's skin, using clever words to mask an obvious truth."

The threat of a smile followed through. Triss felt danger in it, and the gold grip on Geralt's heart squeezed yet tighter. He wasn't sure he wanted it to let go.

"Obvious truth? Elucidate me, white one."

Geralt was nothing if not a risk-taker. "This isn't about race or freedom. Maybe not even vengeance. You're here, with your troops, your guerrilla forces, because someone powerful told you to be. Someone who's using you. They may wear a crown, carry a magic wand, lead a guild-"

"- Or carry a silver sword." Roshe snapped. Geralt resisted the urge to use the pommel of one of his swords to put the man to sleep.

"-Or that. Yes. But be sure of this, it's not about your freedom, your rights, or your ears. Nilfgaard plowed you once, now someone new does." The words hung in the air. "Am I wrong?"

"Those times are gone, vatt'ghern. No one shall ever use the scoia'tael in such a way again." The dangerous smile grew wider. "And we certainly won't be plowed by any witchers."

If the witcher could blush, he would be doing so. Roshe naturally ruined the moment, yelling that he had had "Enough of this horse shit cock waving!" and attempted to draw on the elf. He was too quick for the human and scrambled up the rocky cliffside into the brush. Triss did her best to deflect the onslaught of arrows, the sorceress summoning a golden shield around the two men. Roshe carried her, Triss's strength draining quickly, as scoia'tael swarmed them and Geralt, seeing little choice, cut them down. By the time they'd made it to Flotsam, a slimy small town on the river, Triss was sporting a nosebleed, and Geralt could hear his pulse thundering in his ears. Iorveth, Iorveth, Iorveth…

  
  


Iorveth cursed himself for a fool as he ran through the underbrush with his scoia'tael. They had lost three to the witcher's blade and would likely be unable to bring their bodies back to the wood. He had been rash, impulsive, and worst of all, he could not shake the face of the vatt'ghern, the witcher, the one with the silver hair and piercing yellow eyes. The witcher's pulse had not quickened once under Iorveth's blade, and he'd been so quiet. A companion of Roshe was expected to be slimy, simpering, and full of himself. This man was something very different.

Iorveth had marked the sorceress as well, but she seemed young and weak. Maintaining a shield that small had caused her collapse! She was no threat, and Roshe was nothing to care about. Iorveth's men did not question his actions, for they had seen more risky behavior from their beloved leader, but they did not know his mind's inner machinations. 

The icy grip taking root within the witcher had not sunk itself into Iorveth. He did not feel the need to keel over and die at the idea of the sun on the witcher's hair. Iorveth was a soldier first, and emotions were something he was now used to sliding into a dusty part of his mind marked "for later". Later had been a long time coming, and that room was fit to bursting. 

So it was that the leader of the Flotsam scoia'tael, humanity's scourge, Iorveth, who fought for nonhumans' rights, the sole survivor of the massacre at Ravine of the Hydra, had the witcher trailed. He had the sorceress and Roche followed, too, but the reports he read the most thoroughly were the witchers. 

Iorveth learned quickly that Geralt of Rivia was a strange man. For one, he was supposed to be dead, but Iorveth knew that never stopped anyone from getting tangled up in political messes. For another, he was a wanted criminal. This struck Iorveth as particularly interesting as it appeared Geralt was wanted for the regicide that Iorveth had assisted in. A curious person, this witcher. His first night in town, the witcher had bested most of the brawlers who frequented Flotsam's pub, sold off all the supplies he'd looted from several corpses in the woods, picked up no less than five contracts, and bought himself a lovely prostitute at the local inn and brothel. Geralt acted quickly in  _ getting  _ work, but was he as methodical in doing his job?

The answer soon became a clear and reverberating "yes". Over the next week, Iorveth's people reported back about the efficiency and surprising kindness with which the witcher did his work. Iorveth found himself repeatedly impressed at how often this Geralt of Rivia kept the nonhuman population as high on his task list as he could. He was gradually clearing the woods of the invasive nekkars and endragas, making it that much easier to catch out traders for the scoia'tael to loot as well as rendering the largely nonhuman village far safer to live in. He saved one of their best agents from death, and yes, that did involve her leading the witcher into an unauthorized ambush and getting four more of their men killed, but Geralt tried to do the right thing, and that's what counted. 

Only one place brought a strange upset to Iorveth's heart. Nearly every night, he brought a different woman in his bed. The sorceress who walked into town with him seemed by turns unaffected and deeply upset by this development. Geralt's cold behavior spoke of a past that Iorveth found himself hungry to discover. One week eventually became two.

Another sorceress had come to Flotsam before the witcher on some unimportant mission or another. She made less progress in her near-month in Flotsam than Geralt had made in his fortnight. Iorveth found himself becoming gradually fascinated and enamored with the man, which led to his second foolish indiscretion.

One of the elf girls at the brothel, Saevel, sometimes used her home in the little nonhuman village outside Flotsam's city walls to take customers outside of her workplace. Apparently, Geralt had felt the need to go out for his daily course of sex and found himself in her bed. 

Iorveth did not go into Flotsam. He had never gone beyond the walls, always staying on the outskirts. Geralt's sudden change of local proved too tempting. 

The girl's home backed up to the woods, bedroom windows providing a good view for any enterprising rebel elf who wanted a little entertainment but could not afford a night inside. Her cottage offered a pleasing distraction at a fraction of the participation cost- of course, it was polite to leave a little extra money on the windowsill as a thank-you for the show, especially if it was a warm night. 

On warm nights she left the slatted shutters open, too, so a body could get a better view.

Iorveth struggled for an excuse to watch, lamely concluding he wanted to observe the witcher at his most private and vulnerable. It wasn't a good excuse. He'd found it fascinating how easily the vatt'ghern had discovered the archers on the first day. If he and the witcher were to eventually come to blows, and he was sure they would, Iorveth needed to know precisely when to strike. Besides, he needed to find some area where the vatt'ghern was the same as the other disgusting dh'oine this Geralt had elected to align himself with. Iorveth had yet to learn of a human who bothered to be kind behind closed doors.

  
  


Geralt felt he needed the closeness. If he was in the town, a warm body by his side helped fill the void and warm the talons that had sunk into him since his first day in this swamp the gods had forgotten. Occasionally the feeling could be alleviated by being of real help to the citizens of the woods and town. Soon the bridge troll would have retribution, and the forests would be safe for the children to collect food in, and this town would be free of the horrible, tentacled kayran that rendered their dock useless.

Yes, during the day, he could be of help. At night he needed a warm body and to make someone feel good underneath him.

Since conversation with Triss on the boat where she revealed at least part of his past, he hadn't wanted to feel physical intimacy with her. In her eyes, he could see things she was hiding from him, and he felt more than a little betrayed. Perhaps he would change his mind once he remembered, but for now, better safe than sorry.

The elf woman lead him down the dirt path to her home, her bare feet pad-padding softly. He took her hand as they walked to pull her into a dark area and kiss her hard, tangling his hands in her hair. She smelled of soap and smoke, and her dark hair mesmerized him. Before they could go too far, she would wriggle out of his embrace and lead him onward, giggling in the dark. It excited him to hear her body react against his. Geralt listened carefully to his partners. He could feel a pulse and a heartbeat's slightest change. He could smell the lust or fear in their sweat. And he was gentle to find what it was that made these women squirm.

  
  


They barely made it into her doorway before she was clawing at the witcher's clothes. Iorveth was impressed yet again, and he hated it. He had tailed them, sticking to the trees that towered twice as tall as the highest building in Flotsam, and slithered down to watch from the back window. 

It was a warm night.

Saevel was picked up in the witchers arms, his hips bucked gently against hers. His arms, so strong, strong enough to crush a monster to death with no weapon but himself, kept her tight but comfortable against the curves of his body. He hadn't arrived armed, so undressing required minimal effort on either of their parts. Geralt's back was to the window when he pulled the white undershirt off of his body, revealing rolling lean muscle and dozens upon dozens of scars. Saevel ran her hands over his chorded muscles and turned him, bringing him towards the bed.

Geralt pushed her, gently, onto her back and began a slow crawl up from her feet. He kissed her ankles, ran his hands over every inch of her, nibbled at the beginnings of her thighs. Up he went, agonizingly slowly, pushing her dress up, up, up, until he finally paused to spread her open.

She was wailing quietly by this point, and when he met her eyes to ask if she wanted him to touch her, she nodded breathlessly, reaching down to tangle her fingers in his show-white hair.

Iorveth shivered from his hiding spot. He didn't picture anything particular, but he did pay particular attention. As the witcher spread her open and ran his tongue over her sex, the elf commander nearly moaned aloud, biting the inside of his cheek in shame. 

  
  


This was the part Geralt liked best. He ran his tongue over her outer lips, tasted the sour-sweet flavor of her, cupped her ass gently in one hand, and traced arcane patterns on her inner thigh's most sensitive points. His tongue ghosted over her clitoris teasingly, down her inner labia, and back up again to repeat. Her honest wailing and screaming was as music to the witcher's ears. Geralt wasn't angry when his partners turned up the theatrics, but he always preferred to make them scream in earnest. 

His hand abandoned her thigh for wetter, more satisfying pastures, leaving his mouth open to pay attention to her clitoris while he slipped one, then two, fingers inside her. She moaned for more, and Geralt was only too happy to oblige with a third. His free hand slithered up over her beautifully plump stomach, then further, to cup and toy with her breast. 

The witcher experimented with patterns, licking, sucking, and curving his fingers until he found the points that made her scream, and scream, and scream again. Once, twice, thrice she came on his fingers before she insisted they tap out and give him "what he's paying for, Master Witcher!" 

  
  


Geralt's trousers hadn't even come off yet, and the woman was ready to sell her soul to him at a steep discount. Iorveth had punctured the inside of his cheek with his teeth and tasted blood. The metallic flavor grounded him a bit until Saevel got up, shaking in the legs, and guided the witcher to the end of the bed. Her deft hands undid the thick trousers made more for work than for pleasure, and released the witcher's cock. 

Before Iorveth could see what lay in wait, he ducked under the window. It was over, he was done, he was finished. This clearly was not the way to ambush the Witcher, and besides, he was giving people a good time. Scoia'tel captain, slayer of man, death in the woods, Iorveth the Bloody, crouched under a window and tried not to hear the witcher's quiet, subtle moans. Iorveth lasted twenty minutes before the last of his nerves got him and sent him fleeing into the forests to hate himself and hate this witcher for spoiling a perfect image of an enemy.

Eventually, Geralt had to leave Saevel if only because the poor woman was close to passing out, and she had more clients to deal with tomorrow. It took some back and forth for her to let him leave a tip on top of their pre-agreed payment. She had been very genuine, and Geralt liked that in a service. 

"Thanks for letting me know about your window policy. Most folks might just let a poor witcher get spied on without letting him know."

Saevel giggled to herself. "Well, it's where I get a good bit of my coin, and the other girls had such nice things to say aboutcha! Couldn't be doing you such a disservice." 

Geralt thanked her again with a kiss on the forehead and began the long, dark trek back to the inn, back to his friends, and towards another dawn. He hoped whoever had been watching had enjoyed themselves. Heavy thoughts weighed the witcher down as he walked. Geralt tried his best to convince himself Saevel's long, dark hair reminded him of Yennefer, and not of a certain elvish captain. He tried to forget the smell of minerals, caves, leaves, and roses.


	2. Murky Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt is tired, takes a bath, and more nudity ensues.

Assignment after assignment, quest after quest, Geralt’s body was beginning to ache from all the work he’d been doing since arriving in Flotsam. It seemed everyone and their mother had a monster to kill, a hospital full of vengeful ghosts to exorcise, drowners to put down, and that was on top of trying to find the man who killed King Foltest.

Everyone needed a piece of Geralt of Rivia. Just last night, Loredo, the man who ran the town, had been driving Geralt up the wall. He had insulted Geralt, Roshe, and every non-human friend Geralt had. It took all of his strength to avoid killing the man on the spot. In point of fact, the witcher had taken great pleasure in not only sabotaging the petty dictator’s ballista- a weapon with no use outside of siege warfare- but re-stealing a wide variety of goods from Loredo’s stolen goods store. This, coincidentally, included a valuable piece of a trap Geralt could put to better use in killing the Kayren, the tentacled beastie.

Loredo was near the bottom of the “list of people who Geralt would save from a fire given the opportunity”. He made life miserable for the dwarves and elves living under his care. He strangled the city’s merchant power by preventing any trade coming through beyond the port—a port now taken over and destroyed by something not dissimilar to a baby Kraken. Geralt had taken care of it, of course. He always took care of it, that’s what a witcher did.

Geralt rubbed his face and sighed in deep frustration. It helped matters not a bit that everywhere the witcher went, he was confronted with the visage of Iorveth. Wanted posters plastered the town, his friends and cohorts whispered about the man in secret, and the longer time stretched on, the more Geralt desired to see him again. Excuses for going into the forest were starting to wear thin, and Geralt didn’t want to risk killing any more scoia’tael than he had to. He sympathized with their goals, so much so that he had once betrayed a friend for their cause. The choice had been difficult, but it was a one he could stand by, memories prior, or no.

One lie did settle heavily on the witcher’s chest. He had promised both Foltest and Roshe to help clean up the remaining elven rebels, turn in or kill Iorveth. Witcher code said, “do what you’re paid for and leave off.” His gut said, “don’t touch a hair on that man’s head, that stranger’s head. That head that smells of fresh-cut herbs.”

A plan was beginning to form out of Geralt’s desperation. He had been dreaming strange dreams again, but the content was shifting. Over and over, he dreamt of a wish fulfilled incorrectly. The words escaped him, and in the dreams, he knew if he could just get the sound to come out of his mouth, then maybe he could stop drowning in the inky blackness of forgetting. He wanted to know. He craved those memories more than he craved air, and Triss wasn’t being helpful.

After that first day, when this affliction settled over his heart, Geralt had attempted to discuss what magics Iorveth possessed. Much to Geralt’s surprise, neither Triss nor Roshe had had an experience similar to his. No freezing in place, no dream-like state, no thrall at all. Triss had tried to question Geralt further, but he resisted and brushed her off. Maybe the music had triggered a memory? How would he know, with a blank-canvas for a brain?

Something emerging again and again within the witcher was a dark, bloody rage continually threatening to destroy certain people around him. As he lay on the bed and pondered events, he replayed his meeting with Loredo.

“He’s a monster, a whoreson, a creature that needs to be put down. That’s what you do, witcher, ain’t it? You put down undesirables. I keep these people safe from the forest, and you can be my right hand. You said yourself, they’ve got the Kingslayer! That makes Iorveth-” here Loredo had paused to spit on the ground, “-just as bad as the others.”

He’d clapped a hand on Geralt’s shoulder then, and the White Wolf wished to bite. This horrible little man in his awful, dark, cramped room, thinking he was king of the castle when he was at best the lord of shit mountain, made Geralt’s stomach twist.

“So you’re on our side, eh, witcher? Find me that stinkin’ elf, hell, do a bit a’ torture if you have to. But bring him to me alive.”

Geralt had grumbled something that could be interpreted as a yes, fleeing into the night. He did not leave Laredo’s stronghold immediately, no, not before checking in at the window to discover the sorceress who was not Triss had some complicated and very back-door dealings with Laredo, the scum of the earth. It was time, Geralt decided, to recruit some assistance. A plan was coming together, and the strings of fate tugged him ever towards the elf.

It had not been an easy week for Iorveth. His right-hand man, closest companion and great ally had been taken prisoner and killed for sure by those disgusting dh’oine. Troops were thinning, either due to deaths or a lack of belief in the cause. The bastard Roshe was plotting something, and Iorveth’d be damned if he knew what. Dh’oine plagued him day and night with their duplicitousness. He also remained haunted by the image of Geralt of Rivia, head back, legs splayed, on a bed about to be fellated. He shuddered in what he’d decided was disgust at the mere concept. The vatt’ghern wasn’t dh’oine, as he’d pointed out at their first meeting, and it was taking more self-discipline than Iorveth liked to take care of his duties properly. Momentum was beginning in other lands, and a genuine hope was rising. A real home, a permanent home, for all the non-humans peeked over the horizon. It was a fantasy he begged and pleaded with the gods could become truth.

Somewhere far away, he knew of a land coming into being wherein no elf or dwarf would ever have to fear the words and swords of men again. A woman, a dragon, a potential Queen had raised her golden head before armies and promised a new dawning of the world wherein Iorveth’s people were not an endangered species. He scowled down at his battle plans and pointedly ignored yet another folder dedicated to the witcher’s various altruistic activities. Geralt of Rivia managed to be the most interesting and the blandest man Iorveth had ever encountered. He was beginning to think the daily trip to the brothel was more about habit for the witcher than pleasure.

Perhaps the most significant problem facing his unit at this moment, besides a preoccupation on the part of their leader, was the presence and status of one floating prison just off the harbor. At the moment approaching anything via the river was impossible due to the gigantic monster killing any and everything that approached the shores. They could try fighting their way to the prison barge through the town, but that was an equally ridiculous suicide mission Iorveth would use only as a last resort.

And then there was the matter of the other witcher.

Kingslayer they had called him. Iorveth knew this to be accurate, and while Iorveth technically hadn’t ordered the killing of Foltest, he was undoubtedly harboring a known regicide. The man was hulking and quiet, unnervingly so. Iorveth had never seen a man so big and broad, and had the man given off the distinct feeling that jokes about his side would not be appreciated, Iorveth would have queried as to the existence of a Witcher School of the Bull.

It wasn’t surprising that this assassin, a man who could blend into any area with his bulk without being noticed, belonged to the Viper school of witchers. Notorious bunch of, well, vipers, Iorveth had been under the impression that the last of the school had been killed or disbanded due to the same skillset that this man, Letho the Kingslayer, now utilized.

Daylight filtered away into dusk, and the time came when Iorveth could no longer think straight, nor read, and elected to find himself some sort of diversion beyond the confines of the scoia’tel caves. It was time, he decided, to pay a visit to the garden.

Geralt gasped, lungs burning, as he grappled the edge of a pool in the elven ruins. He was glad Triss hadn’t come with him. The stress of being on that prison barge, of seeing that elf twisted and pained on the ground, had made him sick to the core. Like every other witcher, he was trained to keep his feelings under a thick imperceptible poker face. This did not mean the feelings did not exist, nor that that witchers had no idea how a normal human might react to hugely inhuman conditions.

The barge was filthy. Both Geralt and Triss noted that immediately.

The second thing Geralt noted was the racial makeup of the prisoners. Everyone on board- men, women, everyone- was an elf or a dwarf. Someone had crammed them into close quarters, all, save for one bleeding out at the far end of the ship.

Guards hurled insults at prisoners, spat upon them, and jabbed between the bars with their pikes’ blunt ends. Bloody red rage reared its head to urge Geralt to kill and do what was right rather than what he had been assigned to do. One day, perhaps one day soon, he would spill the blood of these men who considered themselves so much better than others due to nothing more than an accident of birth. At the very least, he and Triss had managed to give the dying elf some peace before he went into that great beyond. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.

It didn’t hurt matters that the elf had elected to share some excellent information before passing on.

First, and perhaps most important to Geralt- he could, in fact, meet Iorveth again. The circumstances were not clear, but the path was becoming more visible every day. He had no idea exactly what he would do with the elf, but Geralt knew better than to disregard matters of fate completely. If his fascination were a curse, he would understand it, and if it mattered to his past, he would unravel it.

He dunked again in the warm pool, pondering. The second boon Ciaran the elf had given him was confirmation that the Kingslayer was not only present but also responsible for the dying elf being in a state of… well, near death. That witcher was a whoreson if ever there was one. That information lead to the third revelation, this time realized through Triss- that the plant life growing on the hilltop about twenty feet about Geralt’s head was part of a key to remembering who he was again.

He’d been quick and quiet about it, sneaking in and out with the beautiful flower, smelling of nothing at all, and depositing it with Triss.

“It’ll take me some time to figure this out, Ger. Are you sure you wanna do this?”

In her rooms over the brothel and bar, Geralt felt more and more out of place. Triss wanted a life of politics and glamor, dancing, intrigue. It all made Geralt feel like the old man he undoubtedly was. He needed to have that part of him back, know why his scars itched when it rained and why he sometimes felt more aged than the hills around him when he heard the cry of certain birds. The mind forgot, but the body remembered.

“Never been more sure of anything in my life.”

She’d smiled sadly at him then, and Geralt almost felt regret for his decision. There was no more going back, though, and he’d once again caught the smell of the elf in his mind.

Finding these baths, with their beautiful structure and tilework beneath the ruined gardens where the remembrance roses grew, was a kind blessing. The water was heated by springs, and judging by how overgrown the entrances were, no one had used it in a very long time.

Naturally, Geralt hadn’t entered through any of the graceful archways, oh no. He had misstepped into a hole and tumbled directly into the pool, soaking his clothes. 

Through the water, Geralt began to hear echoes of something odd. That hard to see hole in the roof was probably the reason he could even hear anyone above. 

Begrudgingly he resurfaced to the unmistakable sound of someone above digging.

During their meeting, that bastard Loredo had mentioned he had buyers always looking for real, authentic Elven statuary. At the top of the hill, perhaps to mark the location where the Rose of Remembrance grew, someone has erected a statue of two lovers entwined in a gentle embrace. Like most elvish architecture, it had a story attached to it. Triss told it after he’d given her the rose. A silly, sweet fairy tale about a human prince and an elven woman who fell madly in love with each other, and legend had it that those who were really in love could hear the statue’s sighing with adoration for one another.

Precisely the sort of thing an unscrupulous collector would love to have.

Geralt heaved himself out of the water and grabbed his steel sword, no reason to bring the silver monster-slaying one for what was probably some fairly mundane humans. He scaled the wall using roots as a ladder and hoisted himself out of the earth directly behind a scruffy looking human.

When theatrics presented themselves, who was he to reject them?

“You boys looking for something in particular?”

Iorveth arrived just in time to witness the vatt’ghern rise from the earth like the most beautiful Zombie ever conceived and say something that terrified one of the three men. The fools drew their weapons- two swords and a shovel, respectively- and decided today was a good day to die.

He considered stepping in, but the witcher could handle himself. Geralt twirled and slid, leaping in the air in a manner that reminded the elf of dancers he’d seen in his far-away youth. “There is a world, somewhere,” he thought to himself, “Where this man is one of the best dancers ever to grace the planet.”

The thought caught him off guard. One couldn’t ignore the stretch and flex of muscle and strength it took to control a heavy sword, but what set this witcher apart from even Ioreth’s scoia’tel was the delicacy and grace with which the witcher handled himself. Each leap and slash seemed entirely effortless, and the sword twirled between the man’s fingers like a thing of play rather than a weapon of war.

Iorveth was almost sad that the ballet of violence was over. The begrudging respect was blossoming slowly as the roses at the base of the statues.

At that moment, the elf decided that, should the witcher seek him out, the human-not-human would get an audience. It may be a short audience punctuated by abrupt arrows to choice places, but Geralt might get farther with the scoia’tael than most.

He’d been so distracted thinking these thoughts that Ioreth did not notice that the witcher was watching him as well.

The two men stood staring at each other. Green into yellow, cat-slit to round, they regarded one another in silence. Geralt was, somehow, more nude than he had been the last time Iorveth had seen him. The man wore nothing but short, damp underclothes that could be thrown on in moments and his sword dangling loosely from his fingers. This did not seem to bother the witcher particularly, because it didn’t. Enough monsters spit acid that one becomes accustomed to frequent bouts of unplanned nudity.

Iorveth made a decision, then, as he tried to look at the scarred flesh in admiration as one did a comrade in arms rather than admire the lean muscle the skin sat upon, and formally approached the witcher.

“I’ve a job for a vatt’ghern, if you’ll take it.”

  
  



	3. Getting Down to business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get rolling and we finally leave the town of Flotsam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS SO LONG! goodness.

"Already got one witcher, why not have him do your dirty work?"

Iorveth pursed his lips and narrowed his one good eye at the witcher. "I have found that vatt'ghern aren't terribly amicable to taking on extra work. You being the exception to that rule, it seems. Perhaps I haven't been associated with the right ones. All cats and vipers."

It was becoming slightly awkward and cold standing on the hill where magic roses grew, and a statue that was said to sigh for lovers watched passively. There was nowhere to put his sword but the ground, and he had only just realized that, while drying quickly, his underclothes were still damp and fairly see-through. Geralt didn't mind the occasional foray into exhibitionism, but he preferred to be warm and comfortable when doing so.

"So you'd rather hire a witcher who's working for someone who wants you dead than risk pissing off the one you've already got? Not a good indication for the job."

Iorveth opened his mouth to respond, but his words caught in his throat as the witcher walked towards him. The scoia'tael in Iorveth, which he had assumed was all of him until recently, commanded him to go on the offensive. The response was not unreasonable as Iorveth had just watched the witcher turn three men into the three corpses, all currently on the ground. Although naked, the witcher was also armed and dangerous, but the mysterious part of Iorveth just starting to come into its own politely demanded he stand his ground.

Damp hair clung to the witcher's skin most tantalizingly, and his scars shone in the dappled sunlight. Geralt paused at the spot where Iorveth had witnessed him pop up like a murderous daisy moments ago and made to climb back down into…

Iorveth suddenly realized that the witcher knew where the baths were and had managed to get inside of them without using the one clean entrance that the scoia'tael had cleared out years ago.

"You want to continue this conversation, it's gonna be down here."

A guerilla fighter's suspicion reared its head. "And why is that, vatt'ghern? Planning an ambush?"

Already halfway down the hole and searching for footing along the wall, Geralt thought even less before he spoke than usual. "Unless you wanna strip down, I'd rather get into some more substantial clothing before we talk shop. Everybody gets pants, or nobody does."

Both of them processed what he said at about the same time, which fortuitously was when Geralt lost his footing again and re-staged his previous tumble into the pool with a very impressive splash. Iorveth crouched beside the hole and peered down at the witcher, looking a lot more like a drenched cat than a wolf.

"I'll meet you down there, then."

Iorveth elected to seek out an entrance that wouldn't guarantee the two of them soaking together. What a tragic event that would have been.

  
  


Geralt very much wished to drown himself at the moment. At their first meeting, he'd implied, with the unwelcome help of Roshe, that witchers were plowing the scoia'tael, and now he'd requested that Iorveth strip down in front of him. If the elf's next impulse was to cut off Geralt's bollocks, the witcher wouldn't be all that upset. Perfectly reasonable reaction at this point.

With no reference for how long it would take the elf to make it to where he was, Geralt hurried to put on some less water-logged clothing, which ended up being leathers and an undershirt. Iorveth was still in his entire scoia'tael gear, covered neck to foot in thick clothing meant to stop an arrow or the stinger of an endrega. Geralt wondered what scars lurked under the armor, and what the full tattoo looked like.

Iorveth crossed his arms, hovering in the doorway across from Geralt. "So, will you take the job? I care not who else you work for, witchers are mutable. You have no kings, no masters. You're useful, and I'm sure I can offer adequate payment in some form or another."

Iorveth had some ideas for what he'd like to be asked to do to pay the witcher back.

Geralt sat in silence for a moment and stiffened suddenly. "Letho turned Ciaran in to Loredo."

Geralt chastised himself, stupid witcher. He should have said that when they stood above, but the interaction had started so suddenly it hadn't occurred to him to speak. "Ciaren's on the prison barge, he might be saved, whatever job you have can wait-"

"Shut up witcher," Iorveth snapped, striding across the room and drawing his sword. "Ciaren is dead, dead, and killed by your dh'oine friend Roshe's men, and if you are stooping so low as to lie to me about him, then I shall cut you down where you sit and be done with this nonsense."

The white wolf held up his hands and rose from the bench, clearly unarmed and unwilling to harm the elf. Iorveth stopped with the tip of his blade inches from the witcher's torso.

Geralt thought fast and talked faster. "It's entirely true. Elf, tattoo, filigree on the neck, really surly. When I tried to help, tried to spit in my face, told me specifically that your Kingslayer wants to slay you." He held his ground as he might when trying to calm down a wild animal that he wasn't being paid to slice to ribbons, palms out, looking Iorveth in the eye instead of staring at the blade.

The scoia'tael elf reminded Geralt of a scorpion. It might be possible to crush his armored body, but not without significant damage to himself. The blade glistened in the dim bathhouse, reflecting a rainbow of colors from the glass tile glinting in the anemic sunlight.

Considering his upper hand, the elf lowered his weapon and nodded to Geralt's clothing.

"Get dressed. We need witnesses and a plan. I'm taking you to the grove of the scoia'tael."

  
  


Iorveth had been unable to fill in his lie on the way down the stairs. There was no job for a witcher, why would the scoia'tael have jobs for witchers? The elf had racked his brains for something to send the witcher to do that his band of highly trained archers could not handle. Thes best he'd come up with was a group of bandits south of Flotsam. A weak reasoning.

He was grateful for the vatt'ghern's information. It saved him flailing for purpose.

Under the internal pretense of not turning his back on a possibly armed foe, Iorveth watched Geralt dress, admiring him all the while in a purely appreciated and aesthetic sense. He wondered if that muscle tone was earned or a part of the witcher's mutation process. Most elves Iorveth knew had trouble getting so bulky, tending towards soft, willowy, or slender.

He escorted the witcher from the ruins of the rose. Geralt mumbled about a humming that had been in his ears for a while, blaming water damage or a severe strike from falling a fair distance twice in a day. Iorveth complained of the same.

"Maybe some creature you can't name has burrowed into our ears. By the end of day, a beast will pop out of our chests, and that will be that." Iorveth laughed. Geralt did not.

"Aalaens."

Iorveth blinked at Geralt in confusion. "Pardon me?"

Geralt climbed up and out into the sunlight, turning to extend a hand to help Iorveth up. The elf took and swung upwards.

"Aalaens. Technically, Zhyaenomarph Alaeanus. Usually find them in frigid, dark environments."

Further confusion furrowed the elf's brow. "That's all well and good, but what has that to do with anything? They haven't been secretly imported had they."

The witcher shook his head. "No, but you said something nameless. Aalaens are known and namable. Usually lay their eggs via an ovipositor in the victims' chest, but the small ones might utilize the ear canal. It's feasible." Geralt smirked cheekily, the closest he got to a genuine shit-eating grin.

"Remind me to never challenge you to a trivia context."

"Wise. We know monsters from Aalaens to Zmeu."

"And all the ones between, I hope."

They continued their walk down the mountain, the humming growing ever more quiet. Above the men the lovers watched and, if one were to look carefully, the statue's mouths had a slight smile where there was not one before.

Iorveth led Geralt through the winding paths of the wood, through hidden pathways and hollow trees to the hidden place where the elves who were sick of humanity's stranglehold on culture and government. Elves who wanted to take hold of their lives and violently reclaim the land that had been colonized out from under them. This was the hideout of the elven rebels, and Geralt was the closest thing to a human to ever see it. The final pathway opened into a copse of trees and wound around a huge, ancient statue jutting out of the ground. Here the trees towered and grew broad. Geralt's medallion vibrated gently from the moment he set foot in the area.

Geralt had been aware of the elves hiding in the trees. There were just a few over one hundred elves in the area, more than he'd expected. Flotsam boasted approximately four hundred people and had no idea a small village of elves this size lurked in the forest.

The elves were incredibly surprised to see their illustrious leader in the witcher's company, but none spoke on it. He was an eccentric man, and his plans were typically incredibly effective. Whatever he had planned, they would support it.

Iorveth informed his troops of what Geralt had told him, of the prison boat, and the lies their Kingslaying witcher had told them. Many were suspicious of the witcher's motives and truth. Iorveth had a solution for that.

"We will get the truth out of the betraying witcher's very mouth, and many of you shall witness it. The witcher will escort me in the guise of a prisoner to the betrayer. He will deliver exactly what is allegedly desired, and we shall see which witcher is to be trusted." He turned his one eye on Geralt and muttered. "You had best be honest with me now. Every step you take will be dogged by my people, and if I die, both yourself and the Kingslayer will fall."

Truth be told, Geralt did not like this plan, but it was the only one that virtually guaranteed a confession from Letho. They prepared quickly, elves binding Iorveth, and taking his weapons before handing him over to Geralt.

"We probably just missed him, the whoreson usually likes to sit in the gardens of Cáelmewedd around this time. We'll walk there and see what's what."

  
  


"What was what" turned out to be that the man admitted to killing the kings and plotting to kill Iorveth. Just as the two witchers readied to fight, Roshe barrelled in in his usual manner and bunged things up. The blue stripes came over the edge of the hill, and Iorveth shouted to Geralt.

"Witcher, cut my bonds, give me a damned swo-"

The witcher didn't hesitate for a moment. In one fluid motion Geralt whipped a sword from his back, sliced through Iorveth's bonds, and twirled the blade, so the pommel faced Iorveth. Iorveth took it without thinking, but as the sun glanced off the weapon, he saw the sword was not steel, but silver.

"Don't lose it." Was all Geralt said before setting to the hulking mass of Letho. The two grappled, and Iorveth watched as long as he dared before turning to defend himself against the onslaught of dh'oine, just long enough to see the ground give way and send the witchers down into the pools of water below.

The statues watched on impassively, while Iorveth and Geralt's ears still hummed with a music unheard for centuries.

The battle was hard. Letho wasn't so huge for show, and his strength pushed Geralt back through several walls of the bathhouse, dislocated his shoulder, and bruised the majority of Geralt's body. The White Wolf was dunked in the water enough times for water to stung the inside of his throat and lungs. Geralt struggled valiantly, using the water and his own strength to force Letho out of the water. On land, Geralt found an advantage and nearly turned the tide of battle in his favor, but Letho did not want for tricks. He pulled a slip of paper from his belt that amplified the witcher's sign of Aard so much that it flung Geralt backward through several layers of heavy stone and into crumbling rock, fracturing the ceiling and sending a cascade of masonry onto his legs and chest. Hell burned inside Geraltt, and some mandatory organs and bones necessary to support life had definitely broken. It stung to breathe, knocking the air out of him.

At least he had enough breath left to shout.

"A witcher and a few elves are enough to kill a king?"

Letho laughed, his gravelly voice grating on Geralt's nerves. The pain grew more intense as he lay there. His arm had dislocated entirely, and the stones were too heavy to move with just one arm.

"Not just elves, nor a witcher. So many were eager to help our cause."

Several of Geralt's ribs were not only broken but stabbing him internally. He'd punctured his lungs before, but never in a situation like this. If he kept the man talking, maybe someone would come. "And you really think they'll all keep their mouths shut about this operation?"

Letho picked up Geralt's sword, dropped in the small explosion that hurtled him into this pile of rubble.

"Who will talk? Who will believe elves? And who's to say my co-conspirators will live long enough to say anything? Iorveth's time is running out, Geralt. He'll be hanged, and the rest condemned for the sewing of chaos." He held the blade to Geralt's throat. Geralt was sure that this was going to be his last day on earth when Letho hefted the sword. Geralt shut his eyes and readied himself for the strike, half-wishing his life would flash before his eyes so he could at least have the dignity of remembering everything before the end came.

"You were one of us once. You saved us, saved my life. I owed you one." Letho flung the sword to the ground and walked away. "Now we're even."

Geralt could hear other people coming through the ruined baths, which meant Letho likely could as well. "You exposed me well, I can appreciate a job well done, but I've got to leave you. Your witch is good with magic, white wolf. Could probably teleport me to Aedirn. I won't even have to hurt her, if she behaves."

Geralt spat on the ground, bloody saliva splattering the flagstones. "I will find you, I will hunt you down…" the pain was too much for him to finish.

Letho nodded, nearly out of sight. "See you in Aedern, then."

Shadows threatened to consume Geralt's world. Heavy stones crushed his legs, and his pack had been sent flying with his sword upon impact. He tried to move and discovered he had indeed broken much more than a measly rib. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Geralt lay there in the dark, wishing he'd died by the sword instead of this long, slow crawl towards eternity.

Boots came into his field of vision, then legs, knees, and a single green eye staring full of worry.

It had been a hard fight, but in the end, the scoia'tael had come out victorious. Iorveth had even gotten a moment of moral superiority, nearly running Roshe through while lying prone on the ground. Still, the elven habit of sparing dying breeds like the Temerian stayed his hand. Instead, he let the blue stripe flee like the coward he was, reveling in the dh'oine corpses that littered the earth.

He turned to find Geralt and saw only the hole in the ground over the pools. The Kingslayer was also conspicuously missing, and a cold worry bloomed in the elf's stomach. Those scoia'tael elves that remained he sent to tend to the wounded and dying while he managed some overdue business.

It could take hours to find someone in the maze of baths under ordinary circumstances, but Iorveth simply followed the trail of destruction the two witchers had wrought. He expected to see the end of the battle, or the white-haired one tending his wounds, but all he found Geralt lying under a pile of stones, paler than usual and close to death.

Iorveth shook Geralt to summon him out of the threatening blackout. Panic seized the elf's heart. He recognized how injured the witcher was, one of his arms splayed in a way that typically meant the person would have a long, slow recovery. The bloody spittle leaking out of the witcher's mouth indicated a very punctured lung. The building obsession that had grown these past weeks gained control of the elf's body and sent him running to the witcher's side.

"Vatt'ghern, do not pass out, don't you dare. Stay with me!" He shook Geralt until the other man's eyes focused a little bit more. Geralt mumbled something about Iorveth's eye, which the elf would be sure to bring up again later when he was sure the witcher wasn't dying, and started to scrabble around the witcher's person for his satchel.

These types always had potions to save them on hand, that's part of what made a vatt'ghern a vatt'ghern. They got hit by monsters, they fell, they drank potions, they lived. This was the way of the world. Iorveth's heart hammered so loudly it made his ears ache. "Damn you, where's your pouch? You are not dying now. I will not let you."

Geralt flopped his head over and looked over towards his pack, half-buried under rubble. The elf grabbed it, frantically clawing through it until he found a series of bottles. He took a chance and held them up- Yellow, blue, and purple. No labels, no names, no mention of what they even did.

"Don't fall to darkness, Vatt'ghern, look. Here, potions, we can fix you. Look at these and pick one- purple, blue, yellow. Come on, tell me!"

Cloudy yellow eyes searched the bottles, and, with some struggle, he managed to say "Blue…. N'yel good."

Iorveth took that to mean, "Force feed me the blue and yellow potions until I come too, and get these fucking rocks off my body immediately." The elf complied with these presumed directions. First, he checked the witchers neck, relieved to find that somehow no bones were broken there, and forced the man's mouth open. Each bottle was poured in and gently massaged down until Iorveth was certain the witcher had swallowed.

He could find no quick way to tell whether or not the potions did their job. Instead of fretting, he started to leverage the stones from the witcher's legs, dragging the man out to lay flat. He unbuckled the witcher's armor and pealed it back to allow the man more space to breathe, suppressing a gag as the witcher's shoulder slipped back into place with a sickening "crunch" all on its own. The flesh under the witcher's jerkin shifted as the potions re-located ribs to their proper location, skin moving in unnatural ways as the various bones put themselves in order.

He'd never seen a witcher use potions for injuries this severe. It was incredibly disgusting to see someone's bones rearrange from the outside. Geralt's eyes were still open, but foggy, and Iorveth was worried about what would happen if he let the witcher pass out under such circumstances, so he tried to keep the other man awake.

"So. Was Letho killed?"

Geralt blinked and shuddered another rib slid back into place, slowly coming back to reality. "Mmm, no. Got away after he did this." He gestured weakly with his one functioning arm at his quickly mending body. The two potions he'd ingested had given him a yet more sickly pallor, and the yellow of his eyes had darkened. "Where's Roshe?"

Iorveth shrugged. "Escaped with his men. We killed some, but dh'oine are hard to kill in their entirety. Rather like an infestation of rabbits that way."

That got a pained laugh out the witcher, now fully alert and able to pull himself into a sitting position. His legs had mended relatively, as the rest had, but he'd hurt tomorrow morning. The injuries went away over time, but the ache stayed longer than Geralt liked. There was a reason warm baths soothed him like nothing else.

Panic seized Geralt suddenly.

"Have to get up. Get to Flotsam. That whoreson's going to take Triss and flee!"

He struggled to his feet. Another ten minutes and he could walk, fifteen and he could run. The poison and adrenaline from the potions woke him from that near-death stupor.

"Iorveth, you have to help me. I proved the man was a traitor."

The elf rose with Geralt, ready to steady him should the other man fall. "Geralt, we can't. The garrison is full of soldiers, we don't have the numbers or the tools to fight them."

About to reply, Geralt took a threatening step towards the elf, his hip nearly giving out as it affixed itself better into the socket. He almost landed back on the stone, but Iorveth caught him.

He was stronger than he looked, and his lean bulk was not all armor. Not a wobble in the elf's arms as he held the witcher up, strong and steady. Geralt felt warmed inside and out, and some part of his hindbrain did not want to leave this embrace. It felt correct. Iorveth felt the same. Both men stepped away in alarm staring at each other with the fear of babes, just discovering how vast and full of emotion the world can be.

"... I have to go. I can't stay, I just. Have to."

Geralt limped his way away from the elf who had saved his life. Iorveth watched the witcher go and raised his hand in farewell.

"Good luck, witcher."

  
  


The town was a wreck, and Geralt had stopped caring about keeping the peace. He beat villagers threatening the nonhumans, saved as many as he could, put out fires, and started a few where necessary. This was hell, he was in hell. He'd nearly died from one of his own and experienced something he did not want to think about, incomparable warmth and the bitter sting of the grave one right after another. He intervened in a fight Dandelion was sure to lose in the main room of the inn, saving a handful of elves and probably Dandelion as well. Zoltan was nowhere to be seen, and Geralt could only hope the dwarf and made it to the safety of the forests.

Upstairs, in the room the sorceress Sile had used, Geralt found her magical instruments broken and her bodyguard dead on the ground. Blood coated every surface. Dandelion helped him, good old boy he was, though flustered. He proved himself useful when he noticed a well-placed peephole that might let the person in the opposite room see the bed in this one. Such was life in a brothel.

The weeping Madame and another corpse, this one a pretty elf girl Geralt had been with his second night. This is what greeted the witcher. He calmed the living woman and discovered Triss had used a device, a megascope, to contact a one Phillipa Eihlheart. She'd been broken in while Sile was away with the help of an ex-scoia'tael agent, Cedric.

The Letho had come. He beat the elf and took Triss, teleporting away. Geralt exited the room, leaving Dandelion to comfort the woman who'd lost one of her girls, and started following the blood out to the woods. Before he could flee the Madame gave him a note for Iorveth. A list of the men who had killed the elf girl in the bed nearby. Geralt memorized every name on that list. He killed monsters after all, and these men fully qualified.

  
  


Cedric was lying in a pool of his own blood deep in the woods. The two of them, Geralt and he, had been friendly in the weeks that had gone by. Geralt would come by and have a drink, listen to the elf talk of the visions that plagued him in the night, and commiserate in the hell of magical destinies. They'd envied each other to a degree, one man who could not remember, and one who knew what was yet to come. They got drunk and talked of the things that haunted them and always felt a little lighter afterward.

Now Cedric was dying, and Geralt knelt beside him. 

He coughed and spattered blood on the ground. "Ceádmil, Gwynbleidd." He smiled up at Geralt. "I… I no longer feel the pain."

When Geralt had arrived moments ago, Cedric was propped up on his elbow, but now he rolled onto his back to stare up at the stars and the canopy above. "Always.." he coughed again, harder this time, and flinched. "Always wanted… to die… among trees."

Geralt took the elf's hand, intent on ensuring he wouldn't die alone, but he had to ask questions. He had to know what had happened.

Cedric told him about Triss and how Cedric killed Sile's bodyguard at the door so the two could break into her chambers to use Sile's tools. "Such a pretty… pretty woman," he said, thinking of Triss. "Said she could help, make the visions go away."

Letho broke into the room after them, and while Cedric had tried to keep Triss safe, the Viper-Witcher was too fast and too strong for him. Geralt had first-hand experience of Letho's might and did not envy anyone who faced him without a witcher's power. Letho forced Triss to use Sile's megascope to make a portal to Aedern, near a dwarven town. The sorceress had tried to protest, but eventually, Letho forced her to do as he willed.

"... And then, then I passed out. I knew I was dying. The forest… it sang to me." he turned his head to the white wolf. "You need to regain your memory, Geralt. You need to remember. Death, I see, I see clearly in death. Soon…. I will rest." Another coughing fit and the elf collapsed onto the earth. Geralt made to rise, but the elf sat up suddenly and grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip.

"In Aedern, in a place tainted with dark magic, where the ghosts of the fallen will fight in a great battle. Save their souls, and your memory will return, White Wolf." He shuddered, and his eyes rolled back in his head. "Thricefold you are held, thricefold, you are cursed. Your first is in wishing. Unwish, and you will be free. Your second is in loving. Give in, and you shall be free. Your third is in belonging, understand, and you will be free. What you are binds you to all that walk and live, what you wished ties you to their needs, and your own fated heart tugs you away from it all. Seov ar minne. N'te ymladda minne. Se caemm aen d'yeabl aen glaeddyvan, aen fear caed, fear glas. Aen fear glas ess minne aen Gwynbleidd." 

Of course, it was a prophecy. The words rang in Geralt's ears, echoing bitter in his heart. He hated prophecies.

Cedric went slack again, shaking, and when the dying man opened his eyes for the final time looked around frantically. "What happens, witcher? I feel… I feel a presence. I feel my forest."

Woodland creatures surrounded them, and the breeze sang softly in a language the witcher could not understand.

Cedric reached out and ran a bloodied hand down the witcher's cheek. "Va fáill, Gwynbleidd. Ride well." The last light of life went out of his eyes, and he fell as if sleeping, cradled in the roots of a gigantic tree. It was good death for any, particularly an elf. Geralt sat vigil for as long as he dared.

War leaves no time for sentiment, and eventually, Zoltan and Dandelion discovered him there at the elf's resting place.

Neither looked too injured from the night's horror. Dandelion was a bit bruised and blackened with soot, and Zoltan seemed to have fallen down a few hills in his fleeing to the forest, but it gave Geralt no small relief to know at least two people that mattered to him were still breathing. HE filled them in quickly on what hat transpired and were rightfully enraged at Triss's kidnapping. However, each brought with them an offer. Dandelion came bearing word from Roshe, a summons to move out with the company of Stripes. Zoltan, however…

"The scoia'tael are up to something big. They're also preparing to leave, and soon. The plan is to storm that prison barge and say they need your help. Iorveth sent for you particularly, must have impressed him at that little scuffle ye had. That barge is made of nonhuman suffering, it'll be taken to a prison most never escape from." he spat on the ground. "A monument to the evils of men."

Geralt had made his choice the moment Zoltan had told him the elves needed him. The warmth of today, though short-lived, had combatted the consuming cold in his heart, and he craved more.

"Send Roshe my apologies. You'll think of something clever to say, you always do." Geralt clapped Dandelion on the back, nearly toppling the whispy bard. Zoltan and Geralt set out back through the woods.

They met, all of them, back at the gardens of the Eternal Roses. Geralt was almost starting to think of this place as a hub for happenings between Iorveth and himself. Maybe he could come back sometime and investigate that hellish humming, grating on his nerves.

  
  


Upon hearing of Letho's location, Iorveth cursed himself for a fool, immediately dispatching a squadron to Aedern to alert the scoia'tael there before they were all slaughtered like sheep.

Geralt had some objections. "That's a several day trek on foot, and I haven't seen a single working boat in this forest. What, exactly, do you plan on doing?" The ache was starting to set in, bone-deep hurt that could keep a witcher from his peak for days at a time, and he didn't want to over-indulge on potions to avoid it. Their plan had to be quick and happen soon. "Something grandiose, I assume."

Already Geralt knew that Iorveth was extravagant. A good sign for future dealings. "I'll tell you, but I must ensure your loyalty to us. Agree to help, and you may know our plans."

Perhaps a little too eagerly, Geralt promised himself to the scoia'tael. "Done, I'm in. We'll get the Kingslayer together."

The elf grinned, sharp teeth shining in the evening sun. "Good, I'd hoped as much. We plan on capturing the prison barge right from under the stupid dh'oine's noses under cover of night. They're rattled from the riots, we should be able to get in."

Geralt scoffed. "You plan on entering a town that, yes, it's in turmoil, but is still heavily guarded, where they're specifically massacring anything below five feet tall or with pointy ears. That's the plan. I take it back, you're not grandiose, you're mad."

"Mmm, my mother had similar sentiments." Another elf tapped Iorveth on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear about tactics and necessary things to get the squadron ready to march. "Vatt'ghern, I'm afraid I can tell you no more for now. We'll meet again, closer to time, and I shall tell you what we will do. Can't risk you being caught between now and then and giving us away."

Before Geralt could object, Iorveth was gone, as were the rest of the unit, preparing for war. Geralt and Zoltan sat together in the grass, equally annoyed for different reasons.

"Fucking elves," Zoltan muttered.

"... The harbor could still be dangerous." Geralt wished he had more ability to emote and express just how concerning this plan was. Two groups, one storming the trading post full of soldiers and the other taking the docks, would work, but they could easily lose half the unit in such an endeavor.

"Of course it's dangerous, vatt'ghern. Or were you expecting a children's tea party?"

The elves around them chuckled. The meeting place was at the end of a path only a witcher or an elf could easily access rebel fighters crowded under massive, arching roots that came from the ground and reached up into the above cliffside.

"No, I'm proposing we trick them. Same as we did Letho. Exactly the same. Most of the guards will be at the trading post, and the barge won't be guarded by more than a few men. I've been on it, they keep four below decks and three on top. They might go up to six or seven at most, Letho's stingy. We take the barge and then signal the others."

Iorveth pondered this. It wasn't a bad plan, and he did appreciate Geralt's sentiments. He'd rather spare his men, too. There were few enough elves in the world as it was.

"Alright. We'll do it your way, vatt'ghern." He turned to his men, shouted the orders in the Elder Tongue, and turned back to the witcher. "I'll meet you near the gates, and then, you'd best hope no one catches us."

Night was falling quickly when the two men met each other for perhaps the riskiest plan Geralt had executed in this town. The elf leaned against a tree, and Geralt could sense no other elves for the first time since entering these woods. However, he could feel the ache in his chest grow ever more painful the closer he got to the rebel captain. Part of it was definitely the leftover ache from healing six or seven broken ribs and a lung punctured in several places, but the rest was longing, and it hurt.

"We have to get past the gate. Got any rope?"

Geralt had surprised the elf, and when he spoke, Iorveth jumped. "What? No. Yes! Yes, I do."

The witcher narrowed his eyes. "Why so jumpy? You'd have heard a human man coming a mile off, and you know the Kingslayer's two, three days away."

Iorveth scowled, the expression twisting the disfiguring scar on his face yet further. "Anyone so silent as you shouldn't be surprised when people jump. Be glad I didn't have a blade at your throat again. I've managed to have you on the business end of a knife every time we've spoken thus far."

Geralt chuckled. "True. Almost glad to get to tie you up, means you can't try and stab me again."

The elf pulled a stout bit of rope from his pack and raised his eyebrows at the witcher. "Surprised, you didn't seem the type to enjoy that sort of thing." He turned around, too fast for the witcher to see a blush tint the high delicate elven cheeks. He held his hands behind his back, shoulders at a strange angle. "Hurry up, vatt'ghern, we don't have all night. Take my weapons, too. We can't be too suspicious."

Geralt obliged. He'd tied up plenty of people before, for work and pleasure. Knots of all kinds had been drilled into him so many times he could do them in his sleep, so why were his hands shaking now? A small strip of skin showed between Iorveths' gloves and the cuff of his armor. Temptation raised its head, and Geralt did not resist, running his gloved thumb over it for a moment. Iorveth noticed, but said nothing, struggling to keep his own pulse under control. "And you think we're ready, vatt'ghern? Weapons man, weapons. Damn, should have taken them out for you, no time to untie me. I left my swords with one of the scoia'tael, but, fuck, there's a few daggers on the belt over my chest. Take them quickly, quickly."

Geralt did try to be fast, but when it came to reaching under the elf's coat, he couldn't help but linger a little bit. The buckle was low down on Iorveth's torso, and Geralt had to remove a glove to get to it. One hand gripped at Iorveth's shoulder while the other slid down to the buckle, and the position necessary to do this put Geralt's face uncomfortably close to the Iorveth's. They were close enough that, if one of the men turned their heads, lips would brush against lips, and fire would ignite.

Geralt could feel Iorveth's heart speed up, and his breath hitch as the witcher's hand laid flat against the buckle, near his left side. Geralt lingered for one, two, three heartbeats, before he realized what he was doing and quickly took the leather sheath bristling with daggers and strapped that to himself.

"Well. Let's get to it." Iorveth's voice was near craca king, and his face felt the heat he'd only experienced for a moment in the baths.

"Yes." was all Geralt could muster.

  
  


They walked into the town with little trouble, Geralt balling up a clump of the elf's coat into his hand and shoving him gently onwards. The guards regarded the witcher with awe, and Geralt was grateful no-one had discovered he'd suddenly sided with the scoia'tael. He'd felt Iorveth's back tense when a guard laughed at Geralt's lie that Iorveth was going to the prison barge. The guard hadn't laughed because he'd caught the witcher in a lie, but because Laredo had ordered the ship sent downriver to be sunk, and all the nonhumans within drowned. Yet another reason that man was the vilest sort of dh'oine to walk the earth.

They passed through the gates without complaint. Iorveth started speaking to the witcher in low tones.

"Want to hear something funny, Gwynbleidd?" Geralt noted that Iorveth wasn't calling him a vatt'ghern anymore, and had switched to the almost-affectionate bynames the elves had allotted him. "I've made life for these dh'oine a living hell, yet I've never been inside the city walls." People spat at the elf and sang Geralt's praises, hurling insults and hope for Iorveth's painful death.

Geralt kept his composure as best he could, distracting himself with conversation. "What d'you make of this? Your work."

Iorveth pondered as they walked. The trek was slow, no need to hurry his thoughts. "I do not feel sorrow for the pain I've caused. They see me for the first time as well, yet I sense not a hint of remorse. I'm not a living thing for these people, vatt'ghern, nor are any nonhumans. They see us like rats to be killed. Why should I be ashamed of the torment I've inflicted? They aren't."

Geralt gave him a theatrical shove forward and continued in a low voice. "Should there be any remorse?"

Iorveth shook his head. "I suppose not. They wish to watch me die, and I wish to watch them die. Such is the way of things. The other side of the coin, a concept devised by philosophers in Oxenfurt who've never set foot in Flotsam. Or any place like it."

Before Geralt could reply, they were interrupted by two more guards, better dressed than those at the gate. They demanded to know where, exactly, Geralt thought he was taking the elf.

"It's Iorveth. Loredo ordered me to put him on the prison barge. Any problem there?"

"Well, FUCK me, it really is him innit?" The guard looked the elf over. "Don't look much like the pictures, eh? 'Cept that stupid fuckin eye- what happened, some lad get too rough with ya one night, got a prick in the socket?" He laughed in the elf's face, and Geralt was impressed that Iorveth didn't spit on him.

The other guard stood much more quietly. "Son of a bitch shot me brother." Geralt glanced at the man. "Can I take a few swings? For him, y' know, what's dead and all."

Iorveth's single green eye flickered to Geralt for a moment, and the witcher shook his head no. "Can't, got no time."

The guard stepped towards Geralt, hand on the pommel of a shitty sword. "What're you, an elf lover? Wanna keep 'im safe and warm?" He pushed Geralt's chest, visibly surprised when the witcher moved not an inch.

"Gotta get these prisoners at the bottom of the river as soon as possible. Y'know how kindly Laredo is to soldiers that don't follow orders." He stepped forward and glared down his nose and the sad little man, yellow eyes nearly glowing in the darkening streets.

"Right, yeah. Yeah, can't make Laredo made. C'mon, Johnson, we got work to do." the first guard shooed his fellow away before more stupidity could ensue.

"You surprise me, vatt'ghern. And here I thought you'd let them beat me senseless."

Geralt grabbed the elf's coat again and continued their march towards the dock. Not far now. "A "thank you," would've been nice."

The elf snickered. "Oh, yes, pardon me. Consider yourself my hero."

They marched on with no issue, climbing onto that morbid ship decorated with dancing skeletons—a macabre display. Geralt felt sick and disgusted. As they climbed the gangway, Geralt leaned in to murmur in the elf's ear.

His breath was warm, and Iorveth had to suppress a shudder as the witcher instructed him to take the guards on the right as best he could.

Geralt passed Iorveth off to one of the boatmen who made to lead Iorveth off to the prow of the ship. The sound of metal slicing the air pricked up the elf's ears. He was about to find out how fast a witcher did his work. Iorveth took his chance, shoulder-checking his escort off of the boat and into the water. A man's gurgled death cry meant sent the thrill of the hunt through Iorveth. Suddenly a blade shot through the air and into the chest of another guard, barely feet away from the elf. Iorveth had been using a small, sharp part of his belt to slowly cut away at the ropes binding him, and now they were weak enough for him to rip them off and snatch the blade from the dead man's chest. He and Geralt moved together, touching back to back as the onslaught began. They were near-mirrors of the other, fighting like battle-brothers of decades rather than near-strangers. They flung and tumbled together, slicking the ship's deck with gallons of blood.

When the last man fell, they panted together, smiling and satisfied with their victory as scoia'tael swarmed the ship, bringing with them every nonhuman Flotsam could offer. They set sail, letting the river carry them away from the hellish town.

A shout echoed through the air, and the joy of battle was cut off early in its short life.

"I KNEW you'd partner with those hate-mongers, mutant!" Laredo stood on the third floor of a rickety tower just off the dock, a torch in one hand, and the hair of an elf woman in the other. "Think you're a hero, do you? Sail away, and these elvish sluts burn."

Geralt looked at Iorveth and saw a steely look of determination in his eye. "We sail. Our women are prepared to die for the good of others." He sounded almost like he believed it himself.

The dock slowly crept by before them. Geralt could feel the regret in the elf's words.

"Let me do this for you," was all Geralt said before leaping onto the rickety dock.

Iorveth barely had time to shout a strangled "NO-" before Geralt was off and running at a speed most men could not match.

Laredo tossed the torch on the roof and threw the elf woman back inside, himself fleeing over rooftops in a clumsy manner that nearly got the man killed several times. He did not matter. Geralt barrelled onwards, shoving men and soldiers out of his way and into the waters- now safe thanks to Geralt for what little thanks he got- and kicked down the door of the burning house. Smoke stung his lungs, which had already taken more than enough abuse for one day. He clambered up the ladders as quickly as he could as the fire spread around him. Three women sat, bound, on the floor, and Geralt wasted no time in untying them. Outside, he could hear Iorveth, yelling something Geralt could not make out through the fire's impending roar.

Geralt shoved the free women in the river with the flames crawling at their backs, diving after them once he'd scanned the inferno once more to be sure no one was left. The freezing water burned just as much as the fire had, and Geralt was grateful he that the women had made it to the ship. Moments after he boarded, the building collapsed, fire spreading to the other residences beside it.

  
  


Iorveth had nearly gone ashore himself when the witcher hadn't come out right after the women. If that man should die, he thought, all hope would be lost for the future. His relief when Geralt leaped from on high and rejoined the barge's crew was felt in a wave by all the elves nearby him. Geralt wasn't shivering, but the women were nearly blue. Iorveth insisted the man be brought a blanket the same as they were.

Geralt sat, moody, on a bench in the private cabin. Iorveth had suggested it.

"Laredo escaped." he groused.

Iorveth sat next to the witcher. "He'll not live long. Either the people will kill him or something else will. You rescued our women, our own. We, I, are indebted to you."

Geralt snorted. "Help me find the Kingslayer and Triss. We'll be even."

The elf nodded. "In that case, to Vergen. If you don't need anything else-"

He rose, but Geralt caught the edge of his coat.

"I nearly died today. You saved me. I should thank you."

Iorveth looked down at the witcher. Today had been risky, the most action the elves had seen in such a way for a year. They were moving, doing something. They had a purpose again in a way they had not honestly had one, and it was all this man's doing.

He crouched down and cupped the back of Geralt's head, resting his forehead against the witcher's. They sat this way, silent, three eyes shut. The warmth in their hearts radiated out as skin touched skin, and each of them felt a calm neither could yet put a name to.

Eventually, someone on deck called Iorveth's name, and the moment ended. "Thank me all you like, Gwynbleidd. We'll speak more in Vergen."

Geralt had never wanted to kiss anyone more in his life. But he didn't. However, as the elf left Geralt, his coat caught a nail tearing the edge of it. Once the door to the cabin had shut, Geralt rose and took the cloth scrap for his own.

He tucked it into a little pocket in the lining of his glove, a tiny bit sticking out. He shuddered at the feeling and wondered what it would be like to touch Iorveth's skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my fanfiction so far! I will not be updating nearly as quickly in future because I still need to finish the Witcher 2, and we've made it to the point I paused! Expect more drawn-out timelines and lots of Geralt and Iorveth hanging out in the future. Good luck on the path until then!


	4. It's No-One's Concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boats and Feelings! I wanted to write some more dialogue and didn't want to wait for them to hit shore before feelings started. Translations for the Elder Speak are at the bottom of the fic! Also, for those of you who have been reading this entire time, some content and edits have been made to the prophesy in the dying Cedric scene. That prophesy is intentionally not translated! Enjoy.

Geralt didn't like portals. He didn't like being spirited places. He didn't like boats when he wasn't sailing. He didn't like any mode of transport that involved giving over control of the destination to someone else. Refugees from Flotsam were, for the most part, traveling on foot to Vergen or had managed to get on different boats stolen along the river route. Sailing cut the journey in half, from four to two days, and Geralt resented that. He was a witcher, no-one should hold him to standard human travel times. He could have fled and ran along the paths, stolen a horse, dubbed it Roach, and probably beaten the boats with an hour to spare. 

But no, he'd had to play the hero and fall in with Iorveth. Iorveth, the elf who's plans involved a boat. All he could do here was sit and wait, letting the past day play over and over in his head—Cedric's last words repeated in his head on a loop. Geralt only knew about one curse, and he at least could manage to get his memory back, but the rest felt alien to him. The bit about the wish weighed heavily on his soul. That must refer to Yennifer, and that stupid story Dandelion insisted on telling over and over again, the one story everyone knew about him. 

The bard nudged him a little bit. They stood watch together while below deck the scoia'tael warriors and refugees had a well-deserved rest. The first hour of sailing had been dedicated to removing the prison barge's metal doors and shackles, making it somewhat habitable for the trip. They had found a store of alcohol, and both Geralt and Dandelion could hear the quiet, hopeful revelry below decks. Several scoia'tael had tried to make the witcher return to the cabin Iorveth had forcibly assigned the witcher, force him to rest, and Dandelion attempted to talk the witcher into joining the celebrations down below. Geralt refused to participate in the festivities or sequester himself, and the witcher had his way, morosely watching the shoreline creep by. He fancied himself useful, keeping vigil if danger should leap from the woods and beset the ship. Technically, Dandelion had been the one assigned first watch. Geralt was just helping. Forcibly helping.

"Geralt? Are you there? Fire doesn't usually put you in a catatonic state. What's happening?" 

It couldn't be said whether Dandelion was asking out of genuine concern or boredom, but a least he was asking, and for that, the witcher was somewhat grateful. Geralt took a deep breath and remembered to move. He had to remind himself that they weren't staking out anywhere that required ultimate stealth, they were watching the shore crawl by on a boat. 

"Don't like boats. I'm going stir-crazy. And I smell of smoke."

Dandelion leveled the witcher with a sober look. "You jumped out of a burning building into a river five hours ago. We haven't been on this boat a night, and you're losing your mind. Don't make my songs into liars, Geralt, you're supposed to be brave and stoic and unbending to man's hardships!"

"You're one of the hardships of man, Dandelion." The witcher breathed slowly, in through the nose and out through the mouth, focusing on the little scrap of fabric inside his glove. It calmed him alarmingly quickly to have a piece of Iorveth on his person. What would it be like to have a bit of his handwriting? A portrait? Dare the witcher wonder what a lock of hair might feel like, to run his bare thumb across it in the night? Their brief moment of touch had melted the ice inside of him for a short time, and Geralt still felt it, but the frost was creeping in again. Void and ache sowed themselves within the witcher's veins. 

Dandelion huffed and leaned against the gunwale of the ship, arms crossed and pouting. "I think amnesia has left you more irritable. I didn't think it possible." 

Geralt didn't know what to make of that. "Call it understandable trust issues."

"Better a lack of trust than too much. The former keeps you alive, the latter tends to result in knives at one's throat." Geralt stiffened. The fabric in his glove burned against his skin. Iorveth's lilting drawl sent chills down the witcher's spine.

Ever the opportunist, Dandelion stood up quickly and made to head back to the celebrations. "Glad to see someone's here to relieve me. You dour lads are better suited to keeping watch up here than I, I shall tell the revelers you send your affection, Geralt!"

He'd gone down the hatch before either the witcher or elf had time to object. Zoltan's huge laugh could be heard from below, and several feminine cries went up, begging for songs of love, valor, and glory.

Iorveth had not planned on being alone with the witcher so soon. 

Poor attempts at excuses were born and buried in seconds. The elf eventually elected to shrug and pull up a barrel, perching near the witcher. Neither the barrel nor the impending silence made for the most comfortable of social situations. Iorveth ached to break the silence or heave himself overboard to avoid any potential faux pas. 

"Surprised you're not down there enjoying a well-earned victory, Gwynbleidd." The witcher stood at his left side, letting the elf observe the witcher out of the corner of his eye. Geralt hadn't looked at him yet, still fixed on the distant shore. The witcher didn't know enough about elf culture at the moment to say whether or not their small moment of intimacy was standard amongst the Aen Seidhe. 

Iorveth knew it was not.

Geralt still hadn't replied.

"I didn't come up here to pester you into joining the frivolity. I can appreciate a man who prefers to keep himself to himself." Keeping his voice aloof and detached was becoming difficult. 

Geralt finally looked over at Iorveth.

"Don't have to stay if you don't want to. Perfectly fine on my own. I've been told I like being alone, but that's just hearsay." Bitterness lanced through every word that came from the witcher's mouth. The wind kicked up, blowing the stench of fire, wood, sweat, and blood into the elf's face. 

Iorveth did not move, breathing in the scent of the man bewitching him. "And why would I ever remove myself from your so charming company? The conversation is truly scintillating."

"Don't like my conversation, you can fuck off back down below," he spat. Inside the white wolf, urges were warring. He wanted to be angry and hit things. He wanted to jump off this stupid barge and run into the woods to live feral. He wanted to know what he was, what of him urged the heroism, and what made him so bitter afterward. 

"A d'yaebl aép arse, dh'oine."* This, Iorveth could deal with. He could manage insults, especially when he could wait for his opponent to translate-

Automatically Geralt rebutted "Twe d'yaeblvan aép fi!"** He turned his head sharply to Iorveth. Anger, poison, and pain left him itching for a fight. He didn't want to think about his lack of a past, his lack of a sense of self. Geralt shouted now. "Thu gwybod, essea neén bloede dh'oine!" *** 

"You've rather impressive command of my language, Gwynbliedd. Most dh'oine- I'm sorry, former dh'oine- can barely manage an insult, and here you are delivering snappy retorts. You're a complicated man." 

Iorveth would not rise to the bait of the other man's rage. Geralt slammed his fist onto the boat's railing hard enough to make a thump but not so much that anything broke. "Complicated. Yeah, I'm so  _ complicated _ . You know I don't even know how I know that damn language? I can't just start speaking in Elderspeech. That was a reflex, and I don't know where the fucking reflex came from." He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, grabbing at it in fistfuls.

Whatever Iorveth was seeing, clearly, his body had misinterpreted. Concern battered the inside of the elf's skull and warm, intrigued arousal snaked its way up his thighs. The witcher was very attractive when he was angry. Iorveth wondered what it would be like rile him up that way in the bedroom, and he was disgusted with himself. Now was neither the time nor the place.

"We do not know what of the soul makes us who we are, Gwynbleidd," he said quietly, standing up from his barrel leisurely, with an air of calculated calm. He didn't want the witcher to assume Iorveth had another knife on him. Geralt's elbows hit the ship railing's wooden edge, and he scrubbed his face hard with his hands. Iorveth gently laid a bare hand on the witcher's shoulder. Muscles tensed and flexed under his touch, and Iorveth was once again amazed at just how strong the witcher was.

"It has been a very long day for you, especially. You did not ask to be part of this conflict. You nearly died for strangers. You've changed the fats of countless people, several on this very ship. Your lady-love was stolen away, and you have joined me in witnessing just how vile dh'oine can be." He ventured a single stiff up-and-down rub from shoulder to shoulder blade and back up again. Iorveth knew something that would make the witcher feel better and dared not say.

Geralt was not similarly lustful at the moment. He allowed Iorveth to touch him but could not suppress the shiver that went up his spine when the elf rubbed him. It would have been a nice moment if the stress and grief of the day didn't keep his mouth going. 

"I've seen enough of that in the past year. I watched the whoresons of the flaming rose slaughter people wholesale. I watched bandits loot and destroy my home and kill one of my own." He huffed into his hands. "And I got fucking prophesied at. I'm cursed, I'm an amnesiac, and I'm prophesied. How is a man supposed to exist in a world where you get prophesied at?" He breathed heavily. Panic should have stopped him rambling thusly, or he should have been speaking to Zoltan or Dandelion, or maybe just to himself, but...

He tolerated the people who called him friend, believed some of the stories he'd been told. Geralt's body knew the moves and signs of a witcher, the curves, and feelings of other people's pleasure, and knew it on instinct. The men, his brother-witchers, who had found him re-taught him what it was to be a person and the first stirrings of memory in him were of his days of long ago. A childhood spent in the ruins near Kaer Morhen. The sharp hellish pain that had come with the Trials of Grasses. Inside jokes with Vesemir. Every memory retrieved there carried with it an air of comfort. The memories of Triss or Yennefer that came back, though, those didn't hurt exactly. They numbed. 

It had been barely a year. Less than three hundred and sixty-five days. Late Blaithe to Burke. Everyone had an expectation of who he was when Geralt was a man lost in a home not his own. Everyone told him this body, this life, was his. His body agreed. His hands knew how to wield a sword, his ears the sound of monsters in the brush, his feet knew where to walk, but he recognized so little. Geralt's life was powered by what other people wanted, and by emotions, he felt like he'd usurped a life like a doppelganger might. Even what he knew about monsters came from nowhere, summoned from a void of information he could not simply sit and think about.

And here he was, talking to a stranger who summoned in him feelings strange and beautiful that he could do nothing with and could not name. 

Iorveth wet his lips to speak. "Do you sleep, vatt'ghern?"

The witcher straitened to, finally, really, look at Iorveth. It still surprised him that the elf was few inches taller than he was. 

Iorveth looked as tired as Geralt felt. He still had his hand on the witcher's shoulder as they looked at one another. 

Up from between the boards of the deck an elvish song filtered up. “Níl sé ina lá, níl a ghrá, níl sé ina lá is ní bheidh go maidin, níl sé ina lá is ní bheidh go fóill, solas ard atá sa ghealaigh. ****”

Geralt shook his head no, once, then paused. "I can. But I don't. Not often." 

Iorveth nodded slowly. "You dream. Most men who do not sleep, it is because they must dream of horrible things."

"I do."

Two paths showed themselves to Iorveth then, and he chose the one that might promise more interactions between himself and the vatt'ghern, instead of the one that guaranteed some pleasure. Iorveth stepped forward, halving the distance between them. 

"I am a warrior, Geralt. I have seen many battles, many pains, many traumas in my life." he swallowed hard, pulse hammering so hard Geralt could feel it through the hand resting on the witcher's leather doublet. "If a man must sleep and cannot, he must not sleep alone. With a friend or companion, who can doze lightly enough to wake him should the dreams come."

An implication towards an offer hung in the air between them. 

The waves splashed off the ship's side, up and down, as the music below them continued, and neither spoke.

It would then fall to Geralt to take up this generous offer, or to deny it. 

"No one sleeps lighter than elves," Iorveth added, hopeful.

The edge of Geralt's mouth twitched upwards as if it was considering making a smile happen. "Then, would you? Watching me sleep isn't something I can just ask people to do."

Iorveth gasped theatrically, finally releasing Geralt's shoulder to clutch his own breast in a mockery of shock and surprise. "Why, me? You humble me greatly! What a great and terrible burden this is, you shall owe me a life debt for such a task!"

The dark mood began to dissipate as neither Iorveth nor Geralt could keep from smiling. "And such a coincidence you'd ask, as Initially my intent in coming up here was to inform you that, tragically, the conquering hero will not be sleeping alone tonight." He struck another dramatic pose, hand flying up to his forehead and eyes closing. "We don't have the space. I suppose it will be my noble sacrifice to share a cabin with you!"

He cracked open his eye just in time to watch Geralt suppress a laugh.

"So the legends are true, you can laugh."

Geralt shrugged. "Technically, the legends are false. The whole "witchers have no emotions" thing."

"Ah, yes. You know, that always baffled me. Your kind also has a reputation for being very sexually promiscuous, do dh'oine just think you bed down with any woman out of a sense of obligation? Lust is also an emotion."

Another shrug from the witcher. "Dh'oine are a mystery."

"That they are, Gwynbleidd. That they are."

The elf stifled a yawn. He had been awake for far too long, days now, and both Iorveth and the witcher needed to rest. He said as much, ordering Geralt to stay where he was for a moment. Iorveth returned with replacements to keep a lookout and followed Geralt into the cabin. 

Neither spoke as they prepared to sleep in one of the two available bunks. It was a nice cabin, large, likely for officers. Geralt took off his weapons, over-armor, chainmail, and boots, but left his leather trews on for the sake of decency. Iorveth had seen Geralt nearly-naked once to Geralt's immediate knowledge, twice in actuality, and he did not want to push that discomfort any further than he needed to.

Iorveth followed suit but left a soft tunic and his bandanna where they were. They settled in for the night without a word, catching each other's eyes in the dark. The witcher's yellow ones glowed slightly, reminding Iorveth of a woodland animal brought inside where it didn't belong. 

The boat rocked them gently to sleep there in the dark, and the witcher began to doze. The last thing Geralt heard as inky exhaustion claimed him was the elvish music, and Iorveth's quiet voice singing along in elder speech.

" _ If I go to the deep woods for berries or nuts,  _

_ Taking apples from branches or herding the cows, _

_ If I stretch out for a while and repose _

_ Oh what does it matter, it's no one's concern _ ."

As the witcher drifted, he found he understood the words, and they followed him into a dreamless sleep.

*A devil up your ass, human.

**And two up yours!

***You know I'm not a damned human. 

**** (this is just a Gaelic song that exists in the world) It's not yet day, it's not my love. It's not yet day, and won't be 'till morning.


	5. Not-So-Sudden Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a succubus is very helpful, a lot of plot goes by very fast, and Geralt gets by with a little help from his friends.

Iorveth proved himself to be as light a sleeper as he promised. Throughout the second night on the boat, thrice woke the witcher, and Geralt found the elf a welcome sight in his panicked state. Any normal man would have woken up screaming and tearing his hair, but Geralt's witcher instincts kept him externally calm. Day after day, his body felt more like a prison that his mind would never get out of, trapping him behind a glass wall through which no one could hear him scream.

Every time Geralt was woken up, Iorveth was there, shaking him awake with a deeply annoyed expression. Or maybe it was the scar that made him look so, with the way it curved the right side of his mouth up in a semi-permanent sneer. Geralt had a similar problem in that his face always settled into an expression that some had called "disdainful, yet bored."

Geralt and Iorveth settled into a routine quickly. Geralt would dream, Iorveth would wake up, and then they sat in silence together until the witcher fell asleep again. Geralt found the interruptions pleasant, as they prevented him from re-living the entire nightmare from beginning to end. Unfortunately, it did mean his mind could walk him through a greater variety of terrors in the night. He started with the old standard, the wild hunt, the lightning, the frost, the cold. Iorveth woke him early in that one. Next, he dreamt of his death, of the pain that left three nasty, sunken scars in his stomach. Finally, he dreamt of Cedric, the dying elf looming over him, repeating his visions over and over again as rot climbed his face.

Geralt would be grateful to be on dry land again. After the initial night of revelry, the scoia'tael had gone deadly serious. The warriors sharpened their weapons, checked bandages, ensured the injured could move enough to be taken to the city, and prepared for whatever would come once they touched shore in Vergen. 

The motley crew and their prison barge landed without too much fanfare, but Geralt and Iorveth were equally out of sorts when they touched foot to soil in the Pontar valley that day. It should not have been so, the sun shone bright as any day, and the company were all grateful to be on solid ground again, but Geralt and Iorveth shared a bitter look that meant each had noted the unease the other bore on his shoulders. Meeting with the dwarf Yarpen provided Geralt with yet another person he was meant to know and love and knew no feeling for save annoyance when the dwarf admired Geralt's killing of Foltest, which remained a lie.

Iorveth trailed behind, and the dwarf's friendly smile drooped to a scowl as the elf arrived around the bend of the road towards Vergen.

"Why's this fuckin' butcher' ere? An infestation of squirrels I can handle, but not foxes." 

Iorveth's expression did not waver, carefully neutral. "I've come with one hundred of the best archers in the world to aid your cause, dwarf." 

"Oh, ave ye? And 'ave ye brought proof ye'll not turn those arrows on us in the night as well?"

Geralt kept silent as Yarpen spat poison, waiting, watching, thinking. Saskia, a woman apparently responsible for killing a dragon and forming Vergen as a place safe for all species, was engaging in a diplomatic meeting with a king not so keen on peace. Once the dwarf and the elf tired one another out, Yarpen turned his attention to Geralt, all smiles and friendly demeanor, indicating their little party march forth. "Me and the boys're waitin' in case somethin goes wrong." Yarpen assured them. "I doubt it'll come to anything, though. Come on, we'd best get walkin."

As they prepared to follow the dwarf onward, the sky fell black.

  
  


"Come, Gwynbleidd." 

Iorveth summoned the witcher, and only the witcher, to join him in following Yarpen to get help. There was no time to wait. He trusted the witcher's gut and had seen what Geralt's blade could do. It would be best for all involved to go together rather than wait for assistance from a less competent stranger. The sounds of war rose in the distance as if from nowhere. 

Iorveth and Geralt found no joy in the promise of a fight this day. No spring to there step, a simply grim determination to continue.

The weight of serving and protecting Saskia dragged the witcher's soul like rocks in a dead man's pockets. Geralt knew what Vergen was supposed to be for the elves, the dwarves, all the nonhumans. This was supposed to be where they could all live and be as people, free from the hell of the outside world and its prejudices. 

Here instead, he could hear a battlefield. Instead of a veritable paradise of equality was the ghost of an idea tainted with the blood of dh'oine fighting for something fundamentally backward. 

The motley crew scaled a rock outcropping and summited it just in time to see a king, a sorceress, and one other man flee through a portal. On the ground near a very obviously magical cracked stone covered in arcane writings lay a man clearly wounded and a blonde woman in golden armor. Iorveth and Geralt exchanged a silent look and flew to the woman in armor's side, but hell broke loose before a word could be uttered.

Mists rose from the earth, and red ringed the blackened sky. A skeletal warrior rose before them and roared, hellbent on bringing all before him through the door of death. More followed suit, legions of the dead called to destroy the living. 

Geralt and Iorveth raised their swords and prepared for a long fight.

Every wraith they cut down was replaced almost immediately by another, and for the second time in a week, Geralt was sure he would die today. It had been pure luck when the owl-sorceress descended from the sky, protecting Geralt, the woman Geralt would soon know as Saskia the Dragon-Slayer, the wounded Prince, and Iorveth. They moved at a crawl through the battlefield littered with fresh corpses and ancient, rotten skeletons. Dozens of wraiths swarmed Phillipa Eilhart's enchanted bubble, leaving Iorveth and Geralt to make sure none slipped through. The creatures were relentless, and by the time they passed through the battlefield out of the wall of mist surrounding them, Iorveth's bones were screaming, and Geralt was desperate for a potion.

Vergen was not the place they had been promised it would be.

  
  


"Trapped like a squirrel in the mouth of a wolf," Iorveth muttered, entirely enraged to be stuck indoors. 

Saskia had instructed him to lie low, but he hadn't been willing to wait outside the city walls without any informants to report on further developments. They'd all argued outside the gates to Vergen. It was made plainly obvious the problem was not that Iorveth was an elf, or even scoia'tael, but that he was himself. All current Vergen residents, including the savior Saskia, tried to explain that all this, the sky blacking out, everything, in combination with allowing Iorveth into the city, would likely push the everyday populace from anxiety into full-fledged panic, but Iorveth was having none of it. Introducing all of the day's tragedy could take time, and it was time he and his people could not afford to spend. 

Leaving him outside Vergen would require someone to sneak out regularly to report to him, which, if noticed, would create an air of mistrust between the refugees of Flotsam and Vergen's citizens. Bringing him in with the scoia'tael risked rumors flying and further panic ensuing. No-one had a good answer, bickering back and forth over what to do with him.

Eventually, Geralt stepped in and suggested that perhaps he could be the elf's keeper. Give the witcher a room, a place to stay, and no-one would ever enter it for fear of retribution, somewhere with good locks. The other elves could move into the city as refugees, with the more combatant scoia'tael stationed around the immediate outside of the city walls to keep watch and shoot down any possible errant threat. They would only need to sneak Iorveth into one place, keep him quiet. No-one would suspect anything untoward of a few elf lasses sneaking up to a witcher's room either.

This, finally, Iorveth had agreed to. 

And now here he was, sulking by the fire.

Geralt had been lead into the inn by a dwarven guide, instructed to make himself at home while those in charge sorted out the mess he'd trod into their fair city. Iorveth had snuck in not long after. Not many people knew what the elf looked like, but his name, in conjunction with his guerrilla forces, would cause some people to clutch at their pearls. 

Or their axes.

They'd sat together in the quiet as the sun set over Vergen. Outside the battlefield, they could still make out the sun, barely, as it made it's daily journey from east to west, but the ever-present black stain against the sky soiled any beauty it had. Fires and magic radiating off of the cursed place tinted the horizon line several shades of gory red.

It had taken some coaxing on Geralt's part for Iorveth to relax enough to tend his battle wounds. It wasn't anything serious by witcher or scoia'tael standards, but his entire back would become a bruise with time. Geralt had barely paid the cost of pain for his severe healing stunt back at the baths, and now his bones and muscles were threatening to lock themselves into place permanently if he didn't do as little as possible for the next few days. 

Even though the elf was grouchy and twitchy, Geralt was glad to isolate with him. The thick stone walls of the inn blocked out most noise from the rooms around, and they were in a strange enough location in the city that the general noise of the outside barely bothered his sensitive ears. For the first time, he could turn his complete attention on the elf. 

Geralt's secret scrap of fabric that he'd secreted into his glove had been moved, tucked carefully into a portion of whatever pair of trousers he was wearing. 

A possessiveness that he did not understand had been settling over the witcher. He'd had Iorveth to himself for barely a handful of hours, but if anything were to happen to disrupt that, he wasn't sure he'd be able to prevent himself from wreaking havoc.

Iorveth's back was to the witcher, his eye fixated on the fire, and Geralt's eyes bore into the back of the elf's headscarf. They sat like that, elf kneeling, witcher sitting in his chair, for nearly an hour.

For all Geralt knew, it was perfectly normal for witchers to obsess over people. Perhaps, every now and again, they got fixated on someone. In the void of his ruined memories, he knew that was a lie bold as brass, but Geralt shooed that knowledge away. What good is being an amnesiac if you can't pretend everything is perfectly normal every now and then? No good at all. 

Geralt rose to re-light the fire, casting a sign as he stood near Iorveth when the elf shot to his feet and started pacing the room like a wild animal. Iorveth hadn't removed an inch of gear since sneaking into the room. A stark contrast to Geralt, who'd shucked off every inch of armor he had on, all too eager to relax in his undershirt and a soft pair of cloth trousers while his leathers got some much-needed time to breathe. Geralt preferred his armor not stinking of sweat and fire. The elf made several trips back and forth from fire to farthest wall, then from window to door, then the fireplace route again. Geralt let him work his energy out for a time, sinking down onto the floor slightly away from where Iorveth had been kneeling. There was a perfectly good table and chairs, but feral men tend to forget such things.

Iorveth stopped in the middle of the floor suddenly and snapped his head towards the witcher, green eye aflame. Geralt recalled the face of a fox he'd found in a trap outside Caer Moren, ready to bite Geralt's throat out at a moment's notice. 

"Distract me, vatt'ghern." Iorveth swallowed hard, throat tensing. "I have not been threatened with entrapment for so long in many years. I do not enjoy the prospect." He worked his jaw, teeth grinding together so hard Geralt could hear the creaking of enamel.

The witcher pondered this request. The thoughts that had encouraged him to steal that little scrap of fabric suggested backing the elf into a corner and breathing in his scent, gripping at muscles and running wild, red marks into the elf's flesh with his nails. That part of his head wanted Geralt to make the man afraid to leave, latch on, and never let go. It wanted to Lock the door and curl up at the elf's feet. 

He didn't know whether he liked these thoughts or not. His stolen scrap of fabric had wadded against his hip and creased uncomfortably, making it impossible to ignore.

"If you take off your armor, I can try."

Iorveth's eye widened slowly. That sounded like a proposition, and Iorveth thrilled when the witcher did not make to correct the impression. He might have missed it, but there was a strange something in Geralt's face that made the elf think that, perhaps, they would make something of tonight. 

However, he'd also seen enough people try and drive a knife through his ribs with that same facial expression. Witchers were very hard to read. He weighed his options.

"I see, witcher. You meant it when you said "everyone is naked, or nobody is.""

Geralt watched as the elf started to undo his buckles, slowly. First, he plucked off his gloves revealing strong, slender hands. Archers hands, the hands of a man who could scale trees in moments. Then belts upon belts holding weapons, traps, and pouches full of mysteries. Then he shucked off his coat onto a chair, his bracers following soon after. Another layer of leather laid between himself and the witcher, and then, finally, he stood in his shirt and trousers. The elf was filthier than Geralt, but in fairness, Geralt had both jumped in a river and had time to air out between Flotsam and Vergen.

Geralt admired the elf's body, attempting to memorize every new curve of his silhouette. Narrow hips, a waist that pinched ever so slightly in the middle, broad shoulders that Geralt knew were even more powerful than they looked. The elf's legs were all lean, corded muscle and sinew from centuries of running wild in the woods and climbing trees no sane human would ever dare scale. Some details were still lost as the undershirt the elf wore was rather baggy once unfettered from leather, but he learned so much more about Iorveth without the armor on. Particularly that the tattoo seemed to spread out ever father. In places where the tunic thinned, Geralt could see the faint outline of yet more blackened ink. Twisted branches and leaves peeped out of the edge of Iorveth's sleeve-cuffs as well, like fine, dark lace etched into his flesh.

Geralt recalled Iorveth finding him in the baths, the witcher naked but shameless. Geralt stood up, and Iorveth waited for the witcher to do something. 

Disappointment filled the elf when Geralt turned to retrieve something from his satchel, and then lessened slightly when he saw a large bottle that seemed to contain a large amount of unknown liquid that sloshed in a way that reminded Iorveth of home-brewed alcohol.

"This," Geralt uncorked the bottle, a sharp, musky, floral scent filled the room, "Is pretty fucking distracting."

Geralt sat on one of the two chairs and gestured to the one opposite him, placing the bottle on the table. There were no glasses, and so to begin, Geralt took a long, hard swig and flinched. Any alcohol that could make a witcher cringe filled Iorveth with intrigue. He joined the witcher at the table, reaching for the bottle. Their fingertips brushed gently, and heat spread up both men's arms. 

The very smell of the hooch made him light-headed. Or perhaps it was the witcher's unlaced shirt, and the maze of scars Iorveth longed to trace with his tongue and teeth. 

Those thoughts needed a good drowning. He tilted the bottle back and glugged back as much as he could muster, which was not much. The elf gasped and slammed the bottle back down.

"T-Tastes…. Ysgarthiad, it tastes of every herb I've ever eaten all at once." Spit filled his mouth to try and combat the strong liquor. A good portion of the burning was simply the herbaceous flavor. A similar taste could be achieved by grabbing a random patch of dirt from an old woman's garden and cramming it, plants and all, into the mouth. 

It was indeed a distraction, and Geralt was enjoying Iorveth's response to the booze. In all the time he'd spent in Flotsam, all the sights he'd seen, he had not witnessed an uncalculated reaction from the elf at any point thus far. It was fun to see his face scrunch and gag, the placid mask gone. The witcher found himself cracking a half-grin, shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.

Iorveth took that as a challenge, narrowing his eye and taking another swig. 

This proved to be just as unpleasant as the first, but he didn't sputter as badly this time since he expected it. Expecting a bad flavor does not make a taste more palatable, however, and so his face screwed up in disgust once more. 

Geralt took the bottle back. "Don't drink too fast. It hits you really quickly. It's something one of the other witchers made, fucking madman." Another swig and a heavy flinch from the witcher. "S'posed to be mixed with potions. But that'd kill you." He tilted the bottle into his mouth again, a little slower, to savor the taste. It grew on you as it killed your tastebuds.

"And I'd really rather you didn't die."

The bottle went back in the middle of the table. After a moment of pondering, Iorveth took it and drank again.

"Is that your plan, then? Ply the elf with alcohol? I thought better of you." The witcher had not been joking about the drink pulling no punches. Iorveth could already feel a tingle in the tips of his fingers. He reminded himself to be cautious, but suddenly remembered he likely would have nothing to do for most of the next day, and maybe the day after. What use was caution to a man in prison?

The bottle was at his lips before the thought could finish. He drank a little too enthusiastically, a bit of the terrifying drink that probably qualified as a poison splashing on his bandana. 

Geralt's eyes were drawn again to the scar on Iorveth's mouth and how wicked it made the elf look. He wanted to peel the cloth off with his teeth and run his tongue around the edge of the empty hole. 

Geralt did not know where these horrific wants were coming from, which made it all the more difficult to turn them off. Two predators, a wolf, and a fox, sat in a room together and drank, craving one another and doing not a thing to sate that craving.

They could not sit and drink all night in silence without tilting the tables, and so they opted to converse. It was awkward at first, small talk about swords and blades. Things they both knew the other one would have opinions on. Quickly the conversation moved away from topics of warfare, too close to home at the minute, and talking strategy would have made the Iorveth more irritated. Geralt brought up his potions, and how they were made, Iorveth asked questions, which brought them around to questions and talks about how elves and witchers are different from humans.

"We are naturally superior to the dh'oine, and therefore to you, now-" Iorveth held up his hand as Geralt made to interrupt, "-I  _ know _ you aren't a dh'oine, but you are but a stone's throw away. I will concede to the technical point, but you are closer to them than we are." 

Geralt shrugged smoothly. "Don't know, I think we're all a lot closer than you elf supremacists seem to think." 

That earned a scoff. "Really? We are born superior, our culture is more lasting and peaceful, and you say we are the same? Name me one thing, one measly thing that connects us to your parent species."

Both of Geralt's eyebrows raised, and he grinned a very small bit. "Interbreeding."

Iorveth made to object very quickly, but Geralt mimicked his earlier motion. "Interbreeding, not only with offspring, but fertile, healthy offspring. Says to me, we're not that different. If it's sexually compatible, it's similar. That's the way animal behavior works, and we're all animals."

The elf rolled his eyes. "You certainly are an animal, Master Witcher, but don't speak for the rest of us." Sarcasm dripped from his voice. His muscles were beginning to unfurl from the alcohol, and he sat lower in the chair, knees akimbo. "You know, when my men were trailing you in that hellish backwater, we had to make an entirely separate report on your sex life? You ploughed every single willing woman who came on to you, and with your lady-love still present in the town!"

That sent a cold ice-pick through the pleasantly lukewarm conversation. Of course, Geralt had known he was being followed, but it hadn't really sunk in that anyone would be reading about what he was doing. Especially not Iorveth. 

"Hope I gave them a good show." He took a long, long gulp from the horrid bottle. Iorveth watched in fascination, wondering how that stuff hadn't eaten a hole in the witcher's throat by now. 

"Mmm, I should say so vatt'ghern. You didn't notice the new elf women approaching you after that first week?" his fingers drummed a playful pattern on the table. "Everyone wanted a piece of you."

"Everyone still does. I've got a price on my head, remember?" Geralt tapped the side of his head.

Iorveth gestured to his own face with a flourishing hand motion. "And there is one on mine as well, or had you forgotten? Do not think you're special because people want you dead. The world has many reasons to render men like us six feet underground."

Whether he meant their shared nonhuman nature or Iorveth's own attraction to his same sex was not clear. Neither of them was terribly good at saying what they actually meant, talking in riddles, or not talking at all by turn.

Geralt was still determined to discover what strange magic filled him when they were together. The scraps of past-Geralt had nothing to say on the matter. If he concentrated very hard, the mists of time presented the witcher with a hearty shrug and a head shake. This was for his current self to discover.

This was something new, and the something new intrigued him, especially how natural and strange it felt to just be in the same room, in this casual space, with Iorveth.

They continued passing the bottle back and forth. It was strong enough that they hadn't even managed to empty a quarter of it by the time midnight caught up with them. They talked of Geralt's life in the past year, and then when he ran out of things to say, moved on to Iorveth. Iorveth liked to talk, but about himself? Not nearly so much. Pushing the elf to discuss himself reminded Geralt of dragging a dead horse to its grave, but once Iorveth got started, Geralt was treated to several very thrilling adventure stories. 

By the time Iorveth had finished his third tale of the night (a riveting piece involving a cow, three scoia'tael agents, some very scandalous documents, and five spoons), they had both become thoroughly soused. Iorveth was laughing over some stupid stunt Geralt had let slip, and Geralt was desperately trying to salvage his story and failing. Somehow he could not stop making it sound like the Leshen had been more than just slain by the witcher. 

They calmed back down eventually, each finding his chest suddenly fuller and lighter for having forgotten there was a world outside the here and now, besides the then and there. Two nations existed for them for a glittering moment- the country of the past, and the kingdom of this moment.

Only knowing these places makes one forget the constant presence of the Royal Guard of Consequences. Geralt leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. Iorveth mimicked the motion exactly, and yet somehow made it look like he was mocking the witcher. He had a talent for that.

"There's. Here's. There's a thing I gotta know." Geralt's voice dipped even lower than usual as if the witcher expected an eavesdropping enemy to drop down from the chimney. By now, the fire was down near embers illuminating the men's faces in strange shadow. 

A grin split open Iorveth's face. "Asking trade sssssecrets now, are we witcher? Mmm, can't say I'll tell you what you wanna know, but you have to try!" 

"What' sthe. What's the magic in that flute thing." 

Alcohol hazed over Iorveth's brain as he tried to make sense of the question. He ruled out innuendo for the time being, much as he wanted it to be. He had no magic flute, though, and said as much.

Geralt insisted. "The flute! It was a thing. A big thing. With the head floating and the focus." 

Again Iorveth insisted there was no magic. This resulted in the sort of drunken argument expected of the heavily inebriated and slightly poisoned. Geralt was more coherent; witcher metabolism typically meant it took much more to get him as drunk as those around him. He eventually managed to convey what he meant clearly.

"Yer flute. It is magic. It does... strange things to the brain. Makes you... sleepy? Strange?"

By now, Iorveth was absolutely frustrated and stood up, slowly but indignantly, to stumble to his discarded pile of leather and belts. Geralt watched him sway and stumble, landing rather messily on his knees to scrabble in the near-dark on the floor. Iorveth clumsily fumbled through his pockets, swearing in elvish all the while. It was a lovely, lyrical thing to hear if you didn't know he was mumbling threats about feeding his bags to a horse, so they could be the actual horse-shit they were acting like. Geralt was learning that he wasn't quite fluent in elvish, but he did know some very choice words and phrases.

Finally, Iorveth raised his arm in triumph, crowing with insober joy. "NOW, we'll see who's right."

Getting up took two tries, the first landing him on all fours. Geralt tried not to stare.

Iorveth slumped back into his chair and slapped the wooden flute down on the table. It wasn't a terribly fancy instrument. Wood, holes where they needed to be, a delicately cut mouthpiece, all things one would expect of a flute. It did seem that someone loved it very much. The wood had been shined slightly around the holes where fingers pressed to them, and little teeth marks where the elf had bit into it at some point. Geralt picked it up, waiting for his medallion to vibrate with the presence of magic.

It did not do a damned thing.

"Okay, okay, so it's you who did the thing then."

Iorveth threw his hands up in frustration. "WHAT thing? I did no thing to you, at any point. I am entirely free of guilt from thing… doing." 

To his immediate knowledge, Geralt had not experienced an instance where the music coming from an instrument was magical, but the player or the instrument was not. He could be mistaken, of course. A year of memories is not very much time to notice magic in, but that was the most straightforward explanation for his reactions. Geralt gave the flute a tentative blow, and nothing but an ordinary but somewhat sad little "toot" came out. No golden hue, no uncontrollable force of attraction, just an elf laughing at him as a drunken flush took over Iorveth's face. 

"No, that was pathetically incorrect. Here, let me."

Iorveth reached out and plucked the flute from Geralt's hands and lifted it delicately to his own lips. He didn't start playing right away but fluttered his fingers over the holes as if ensuring they still worked. 

He blew softly, conjuring a high, mournful note in the flickering light of the fire. His good side faced the witcher, no scar in sight, and in the dim glow, he saw what Iorveth was before the scar. The hearts he must have broken before he started fighting. The men who must have swooned at his feet, just like Geralt was swooning now. 

The witcher did not know the melody Iroveth coaxed from wood and air. It was slow, and quiet, and carried in it a great burden of sweetest sorrow. Enchantment glistened within Geralt's eyes as he watched nimble fingers play, and Iorveth's eye drift nearly shut. His lashes were so long and delicate in the firelight. A few tufts of midnight hair had slipped out of the red bandana, longer than Geralt would have guessed. Elves were very prideful of their hair, and Geralt wondered if Iorveth was the same. 

The same single-mindedness took over Geralt. The world narrowed to the single point of Iorveth, and the witcher's limbs felt welded in place. There was nowhere else to look, nothing else to hear, nowhere else that was save the elf and the music. 

Geralt could not deny that he felt something special. When he remembered Yennefer in those sparse moments when his past life reared its head, the feelings towards her felt dark and tumultuous. Grey, sweeping him away like a riptide. He felt sorrow for her when she watched him die, felt like he imagined a dog did when it was collared and tied at the foot if its masters bed. Triss made him feel a little more pampered. A wolf in a gilded cage, scratched and ogled and adored, prized, and preserved—the pet witcher. The color of this love would be a harsh and polished white, cold as marble.

Whatever this was, it had to be magic. It was alien. It was golden and green. 

In his mind's eye, Geralt pictured a Iorveth centuries younger without the slate in the center of his green eyes. He pictured the man throwing his head back and laughing without derision and wrapped in the finest silks and linens an elvish court could give. He imagined a man at one with the wood running like a deer over cliff and chasm, crevasse and cavern, helter-skelter, thither and yon, without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Iorveth finished the tune, and Geralt watched the young deer turn again to a fox. The world was still golden, but the green engulfed the elf. It felt symbolic of secrets, deeply and fundamentally. 

"There, see? No magic."

Geralt shook his head. "Definitely magic."

Iorveth narrowed his eyes. "No magic."

Geralt shifted in his seat and glared at the elf. "Certainly magic."

"I supposed there's an argument to be made about magic being present in music conceptually, but no, not magic." Annoyance was sobering Iorveth up very quickly. 

Geralt did not want to explain what he was feeling. An uncharacteristic wave of shame washed over him every time he tried to open his mouth and explain that yes, it had to be magic. Otherwise, why did he feel like they were the only two people in all of creation, and why did he want it to stay that way until the world collapsed and time ceased to exist? Geralt had heard of magic that could compel someone to do horrible things. He'd encountered a succubus who made men mad with want, but nothing could be so good as this.

"I don't believe you." Was the only retort the witcher managed.

Frustration rumbled in Iorveth's chest as she scrubbed his hands over his eyes. "I cannot be more clear that this is not magic." He paused and looked at the witcher. "Tell me again why you think I'm working sorcery? "

Geralt opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, then closed it. "Because I do." he managed, words feeling like bindweed twisting his throat stuck.

Iorveth made to retort and caught himself. The witcher's pupils, typically narrow slits, had become enormous. Why Iorveth's people called Geralt Gwynbleidd, the White Wolf, Iorveth knew, but with the cat-like features, Gwyncath made more sense. They were all very cat-like. The change in the witcher's eyes struck Iorveth as sweet and vulnerable. Iorveth could not quite pin down why, but he did know that it made him want to pin the witcher down to something and see those eyes go cloudy.

His fingers dug into the table. 

Iorveth very much wanted to fuck this man. 

He did not know if Geralt wanted to fuck him. Or fuck men at all. Not a one of his intelligence people had marked Geralt making a single move on one of the elves… But they also seemed to not mention Geralt making the first move very often. Perhaps some night he'd find out, but the real world's pressure and not knowing what tomorrow would bring stopped him.

Iorveth proposed they go to their separate beds, and Geralt agreed. 

Iorveth dreamt of white hair and strong hands, and huge, yellow eyes.

  
  


Twice in the night, Geralt had needed to be woken up, the same dream twice of being stabbed to death with a pitchfork. One less lousy dream than the night before, but still terrible. That was his least favorite now, somehow edging the Wild Hunt out for "thing Geralt liked to dream about least". Perhaps it was a portent of the days to come. Two more days and nights passed before Iorveth and Geralt received word that a war council was meeting, and Iorveth would be officially presented as a protecting member of Vergen. He was the last problem to solve.

They continued as they had the first night, more genial with each passing day. Sometimes they sat in silence, polishing armor, reading, or whittling. Sometimes Iorveth would play the flute, and Geralt would be sucked in again. Sometimes they told stories, but mostly they were quiet and enjoyed the company of someone who could understand the need for it. 

Somehow Iorveth still received reports, a piece of paper slipping under their door occasionally, or Geralt would leave and return to find Iorveth crouched over a map of the surrounding area, scribbling notes. The squirrels were nothing if not efficient. 

Finally, the call came for them to meet with Saskia's council, and Geralt could see the relief in Iorveth's shoulders.

  
  
  


Iorveth had not been so tense in a long time. Saskia was nearly dead and comatose, and Vergen was much more hostile to him and his than expected, and of course, it was the witcher who got to save the day. The sorceress Phillipa, a woman who could become an owl and had a tone of voice like a serpent who has successfully eaten your pet bird without you noticing, presented him with a list of things he could do to save the day. Iorveth had sworn out loud when she delivered the first, demanding a Rose of Remembrance. Roses of Remembrance grew back in Flotsam, and were they not blocked into the city and away from the docks by an army of murderous ghosts, they might have been able to supply the rose within a few days. As it was, the only such rose was in the hands of Triss Merigold, as yet missing.

Phillipa had not been best pleased. She was apparently adapting a spell that required precise ingredients and was doing her best to only ask for things that should be close to readily available. The next-nearest thing would be a flower that grew only in Zerrikania. Suddenly finding Triss was even more mandatory.

Iorveth spent the days between the request for a rose and the next item on Geralt's list with his people. Temporary housing had to be erected, and he had to admit that it did surprise him when local dwarves and refugee humans decided to assist them after his frosty reception. It hadn't taken long for a shantytown to come to life and promises to be made to ensure the elves would have good, permanent homes as soon as possible. The locals even helped bring in plant life to make the elves feel more at home, hauling local flora from the woods. 

The area they had been sequestered to had several homes in the style of Vergen, carved into the mountain's stone. The sick, the young, and the very old went there first, and Iorveth spent most of his time tending to either his scoia'tael or ensuring everyone got what they needed, when they needed it. 

He didn't speak to Geralt for days. They'd catch each other around the city, nod, and promise to drink together later. They would part awkwardly then and continue on their way, days blending into one another. Back to back work wore Iorveth ragged. He negotiated with traders and builders, found places for the craftsmen amount his refugees to work, and generally set about creating a life for everyone around him.

Iorveth had been making requests of Cecil the alderman near an old mine shaft when Geralt stumbled out, covered in monster guts, and flanked by dwarves who were significantly more triumphant than he. Geralt was clutching a vibrant plant in his fist. The witcher was panting, sweaty, and his coloration had shifted towards the distinctly ghostly, save for the horrific black tint to his eyes and deep, dark veins. He was more animal than human and filled with potions, and Iorveth was once again struck with how much he wanted to bed this man while being deeply, deeply concerned for his psyche. 

  
  


Geralt missed Iorveth. He needed him, frequently and desperately. When approached carnally, Geralt couldn't help but wonder what parts of his partner's bodies would be like Iorveth's. Did he have hair here, was he soft there? He felt enspelled. 

Once he'd succeeded in finding the plant down a dwarven minshaft, Phillipa had sent him out to find "something of immense power". In the forests, killing harpies and fulfilling wishes for strange men in cabins, he had found a dwarf dream that had made Phillipa pause. It wasn't powerful enough, but the existence of this little crystallized bit of dream implied that there might be more somewhere. He should set about finding where that was.

No luck had been had as yet. What he had found instead was a succubus at the center of a murder plot. She stood accused of killing young men in the area, causing quite the ruckus.

He did believe her when she said she wasn't a killer. Believed her enough to desecrate a corpse, making the first excuse he'd had to see Iorveth an unpleasant conversation about a murderous man obsessed. At least they'd spoken, but Geralt could feel the blackened numbness in his head and heart. Whatever warmth Iorveth injected into Geralt's frosty world needed to be re-upped, and he wasn't entirely sure how. 

Geralt wanted to devour him whole to feel that warmth in his chest and stomach again.

The witcher did manage to prove the succubus innocent at the cost of her accusor's life. The succubus had been grateful and offered him a night of impossible pleasure, but Geralt declined.

"Not interested." 

"Really? Pity," she purred. "I've heard such good things about witchers in bed."

Part of Geralt wondered who'd told her such things. "I have questions about magic. Your kind of magic."

She'd seemed taken aback by this. "Really? I would have thought you'd know everything succubus enchantments, witcher."

"Can't know everything, but what I want to know isn't specific to succubi, but I have a theory it's similar. There's something I want to check."

He described the situation and issue with Iorveth. The flute, the icy feeling in his stomach, all of it. She asked questions occasionally and seemed more and more amused with each one. By the time she was satisfied, she asked him for something particular. "I can think of only one way to answer your question- Let me render you my services. I promise the outcome will more than satisfy your curiosity."

He didn't know what to do other than agree.

The succubus pushed him onto her bed and kissed him. The world went strange and bubbly, and Geralt felt drunk. Rosy, almost, in a giggly way. "We start with this and see how you feel afterward."

She crawled up him and deftly undid the witcher's trousers and belts. He allowed her to do this and assisted by removing his sword harness, dropping the weapons off the bed's side. They might have drawn people in, but so far, no one had asked Geralt to leave his swords on during lovemaking. The succubus took control immediately, which Geralt couldn't help but appreciate. 

The bubbly feeling she induced was accompanied by a very, very stiff cock. Such was the way of succubi. 

Her goat-like legs were incredibly soft and nearly unbelievably powerful, as Geralt found out. She straddled him quickly without fanfare and impaled herself upon the witcher. He arched his back and hips upwards, digging his fingers into her haunches. Her magic made him a little duller, his mind slower, but his nagging void of a mind let him know that yes, he had fucked succubi, and yes, he was good at it. Nothing new for Geralt to discover there.

And so he sat up and cradled her, pulled the fur on her legs, nuzzled her breasts, and bucked his hips hard up against her sex. She was warm and velvety, as could be expected, and they both drove one another towards orgasm with a delightful quickness.

He came once, just after she did, and flopped back onto his back. She slipped backward and moved her knees between his legs. "Did that feel as you described? Your icy, golden sensation?"

Geralt shook his head in the negative. "No. Weirdly pink? But nice."

She nodded knowingly. "Of course, as I suspected. One moment, if you please. Shut your eyes."

Geralt obliged, shutting them as he saw her rummage in a cupboard for something. A match was lit, and suddenly the air smelled heady and sickly-sweet. He nearly gagged on the smell, but it soon turned to something intensely earthy in his nose. 

"Alright," she said. Geralt could feel the weight of the bed as she returned between his legs. 

"Open your eyes."

Geralt very nearly had a heart attack when he saw, not the succubus, but Iorveth. He was in the same shirt and trousers he had been in back in the inn, head tied up in a bandana, but he was smiling the same way the succubus was. Geralt felt warm and full of anticipation and incredibly vulnerable, lying there with his suddenly incredibly hard cock. The world was fast turning gold and green.

"What do you think?" Said the succubus wearing Iorveth's face. 

The witcher was breathless. "What is this?"

She giggled into her hands, which looked very strange on Iorveth. "A special incense mixture, darling, with a bit of illusion magic thrown in. It allows me to look like the one you desire." She shifted down, brushing her lips against the head of his cock. Geralt could feel her plump, supple lips where he wished he felt Iorveth's scowling, scarred ones. "It is unusual that I take the appearance of a man. Also interesting that you do not know what he looks like naked, but I am not one to judge. You've imagined what he looks like nude, and I can work with that."

He almost wanted to continue as they were but pushed her off gently. "It's the same. Same feeling. The tunnel vision thing," he mumbled. She grinned at him wickedly.

"Well, don't you want to know what this means, witcher? Are you not curious? What dark, horrific magics there are to know of in this world?"

Geralt had swung his legs over the edge of the bed and started re-buckling his pants. She draped herself around him, and he nodded, not looking at the false Iorveth. It hurt his chest how affectionate she made the elf look.

"You want him, stupid witcher. You might even love him, but you certainly want to fuck him."

A sucking sound happened to Geralt's ears as he processed. Instead of thinking, he turned his head sharply, grabbed her head, and kissed Iorveth's face with all the hellish passion he could muster.

His dreams were changing again. The most recent one was not something he would entirely call a nightmare, but it was very different. 

Meeting the succubus had broken Geralt a little bit, and the dreams proved it.

He'd dreamt of being in a deep, dark forest. There were no birds, and no animals, just the silent green of the trees. He would wander into the woods towards a sound that was not a sound, music that did not play in his head, but he could feel inside himself. He would wander and look and watch until he found the source. 

He would find a Iorveth who was not Iorveth. Naked entirely, his hair was loose and long enough to touch his waist, and his scar looked like a vein in a deep tree. Oak leaves sprouted from the injured eye socket, and patches of moss replaced body hair. Geralt asked him what he was and who he was.

This Iorveth would smile kindly and speak without moving his lips. He would say he was the Green Man of these woods and that this was his sacred space. He gave succor to animals and humans alike, and wasn't Geralt an animal?

The witcher would feel his jaw lengthen and teeth go sharp, his nails curving into wicked claws. 

The Green Man, the Iorveth, would open his arms wide, and Geralt pounced upon him, the dream Iorveth digging his nails into his back. Geralt's claws dug into his chest and peeled it apart like bark, sap rushing to consume them both, and Geralt had opened his great, wolfish maw and sank his teeth deep into Iorveth's chest as he moaned in ecstasy.

Once upon a time, there was a witcher whose heart said, "I'll eat you up, I love you so."

Once upon, there was an Elf who replied, "Not if I eat you first."

  
  


Geralt decided it was time to seek outside help from the person who knew the most about romance. 

  
  


"Tell me the honest truth. Have you ever slept with an elf?"

Dandelion looked more uncomfortable with this line of questioning than Geralt expected him to be. That may be because this was the first thing Geralt said when he sat down. "... Yes? So have you. Within the past week."

This was true. Geralt knew that had been a stupid question to open with.

"What about a man?"

Ever the best at timing, Geralt had inquired just as Dandelion was taking a drink, causing the bard to snort and get beer inside his nose. The bard sputtered for a moment. "Why would that matter? Why are you asking? What have you heard? It isn't true whatever it is, lies and slander to stain the good name of the great poet!" He got louder and louder with each proclamation.

The witcher just sat and waited for an answer, doing his best to look something other than eager. Accommodating? Accepting? He hoped it came across. Whether it did or not, Dandelion settled into stiff silence and leaned forward, continuing in a whisper.

"So, yes, and no. And before I explain, if this is the worst flirtation you've ever given, you're really not my type, Geralt." That last bit was rushed out, and it sounded like the bard was genuinely afraid and tensed to run. Geralt shook his head.

"No, not why I'm asking. Don't flatter yourself, your head's too big as it is." 

Dandelion had the decency to pretend to be offended at Geralt's accurate assessment of his friend. "Then you have terrible taste, and many people across these lands put your opinion to shame." he took another drink and somehow managed to make it look huffy. Very impressive.

"So, the answer is actually "yes," but yes and no leaves me a little bit of leeway by way of an answer. I can always pretend I said no, if asked, and claim the other party was mistaken in their memory." The bard looked very pleased with himself. 

Geralt nodded slowly. "Have I ever slept with a man?"

Now Dandelion froze, a strange seriousness descending over him. "I don't know. I really don't know. Why?"

They were in a crowded bar, but no one was listening to them. Geralt got glances from patrons, but they'd apparently learned that Geralt didn't tend to talk shop in public and wasn't going to say much of interest. No one was eavesdropping, and Dandelion ought to have been his closest friend. The witcher took a risk.

"I don't remember anything. This… me, this myself, has existed for a year." He gestured to his body, vaguely. "I don't know what I'm going to want if my memories ever come back." He took a draught of his beer, then continued. "There's a man, and there's this feeling that I get when he's around. It's better than… anything."

Both of the bard's eyebrows shot up. "Better than Triss?"

The question was implied, and Geralt nodded. "Yes."

".... Yennefer?" 

Geralt shrugged. "I don't remember much about her, but what I can recall, yes. Better than that."

Dandelion drank the rest of his beer in a single, long gulp. His hands were nearly shaking. Quiet followed after he banged his mug against the table. He looked like he'd seen the spirit of his own death in Geralt's words.

Finally, he met his friend's eyes again and saw nothing but stoic, open sincerity. Dandelion's stories were becoming more and more mistruthful with each passing day as the poet learned this new Geralt. The thought of Geralt really WITH someone who wasn't one of the sorceresses was genuinely hard to picture. 

"Well," the bard began, voice was shaky, "He must be a magnificent lover." 

If Geralt could blush, he would have. Instead, he looked as bashful as best he could with a face who's a default setting that said, "I will murder you and be very bored in the process."

"... You haven't slept with him yet."

Geralt shook his head. 

"Have you kissed him?"

Another shake.

"The Geralt I know isn't that much of a romantic. You don't get attached to the women you sleep with, and they don't latch on to you, with one or two notable exceptions. I've always been kind of impressed by that, actually." 

The witcher scowled. "Then maybe I'm not the Geralt you know, hence the question." He leaned in, cutting a very threatening figure. "Have I, to your knowledge, ploughed a man?" 

Any humor in the situation suddenly ran for cover. "No. No, I'm pretty sure you've never done that. Or at least you never told me about it if you did."

Geralt slumped back into his seat. 

At least this might be something new. Something that belonged to this Geralt rather than the ghostly hands of past Geralt shoving him in every direction. "What do I do?"

"If you're inquiring about the mechanics of the situation, there are some very enlightening books on the subject-"

Geralt shot the bard a look of pure murder, and Dandelion clamped his mouth shut

This conversation was full of firsts for Dandelion. Talking about feelings, Geralt loving a man, and now he was being asked for love advice from the witcher who always seemed to know what to do with every woman who walked by. 

He could try to be helpful in his own way and suggest his wooing methods, but something told the bard in his gut that Geralt wasn't engaging with the same types of men Dandelion did. For one thing, that was too broad a category to narrow down into just one man, and for another, Geralt didn't tend to fall in bed with the sorts of people who liked being wooed with poetry.

"I can honestly say I cannot help you in this trying time. I cannot properly convey how much that wounds me." He swooned dramatically. "Call a priest, for Dandelion is dead! I have found a place of romance where I cannot assist!" 

Zoltan coughed awkwardly from somewhere behind Geralt. Geralt stiffened at the noise, while Dandelion jumped nearly a foot in the air. 

"Sorry, laddy, could've said something earlier." The dwarf slid in next to the witcher and clapped him on the back. "Love's tough. Very tough. Especially for you, knowing how vicious that sorceress was." 

Geralt snorted, glad to know his friends had no confidence in Geralt's ability to choose a romantic interest. 

"I'm no master of romance, but I'll give you some advice." Zoltan took a sip of his beer. 

"You're not giving us a name. Safe to guess, then, that we're not getting that out of you easily." Another slow sip. "He's something important, and you're bothered. And it's someone you want."

Zoltan leveled him with a severe eye. "Go find him, back him into a corner, and ask him point-blank what's happening between you. He'll say something or he won't, and that'll be that."

The thought petrified Geralt and excited him in equal measure.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one! I was apparently not correct about updates taking longer, please forgive my accidental lie. You may have heard Ao3 isn't recording guest hits right now, which means that if you're not logged into an account here it won't tally that you've looked at a fic! If you're a guest, please leave kudos and comments so creators feel seen and know you're here. Thank you for reading!


	6. Kiss You To Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you don’t recognize desire, it feels a lot like cannibalism. In which Geralt and Iorveth have a fight and finally do more than touch foreheads.

If you don't recognize desire, it feels a lot like cannibalism.

Iorveth was not easy to find, and the night turned to day while Geralt searched. The elves were tight-lipped about where their leader had gone off to, and before Geralt could try to get more information, Phillipa handed him another task: Find the nest of the Harpy Queen and find more powerful dreams. A task easier said than done. Phillipa knew there WAS a harpy queen, but not at all where that queen was supposed to BE. She had simply told him that there was one, and she'd let him know when she had more information. Geralt spent three days angry and stressed, so much so that he actually said no to sex for the first time in a long time.

Not to everyone, mind. 

He still felt the sweet release of frigid hell when someone came screaming at his ministrations, but he could not stop thinking of Iorveth. Despite his crushing desire to consume Iorveth, his thoughts had a kind of chasteness to them. It had occurred to Geralt's heart but not the rest of his body that he desired Iorveth. That the piece of fabric, still secreted in Geralt's glove, burned his flesh so beautifully because it had been against Iorveth's. Want was snowballing into lust, and even then, something more. Geralt did not wish to spend a night with Iorveth. He wanted much more. When Geralt tried to name these desires, his mind refused to consider them, and he felt an overwhelming rush that left him unable to speak. 

He'd read about accounts of religious men recounting their encounters with gods.

What he felt resembled these accounts to an alarming degree.

These feelings, new and holy, ate the witcher's mind. He should have been seeking a harpy queen, searching for Triss, but his mind shoved all else to the wayside. A pulling single-mindedness wrenched him hither and yon. The man who killed monsters and had seen the craving in their eyes when they witnessed men's flesh, tender and succulent, hunted as they did. The longer he went without the elf, the more his desire grew. If his memories were a tossing dark sea, this lack was a whirlpool sucking all into itself.

He did his work without joy, wandering the canyons and forests with dreaded purpose.

  
  


It had not occurred to Iorveth to tell anyone to stop reporting on the witcher, and one very bright and eager young elf, or perhaps a very horny one, had kept up. Every night that Iorveth had not been with him, Geralt had bedded someone. Usually, just one someone, which was down from his typical numbers in cities, and he was even saying "no," but each subsequent conquest sent needles into Iorveth's chest. 

It was an irrational jealousy that filled him. 

He had no claim to anything exclusive with the witcher; Iorveth had not touched him with more intimacy than he might show to a close comrade. He had it on no authority that Geralt would desire someone of the same sex or looked as ragged as Iorveth did. It did not matter anyway. Instead, he worked, powering through the days with drills and arguments, walking a narrow line between a military commander and some mayoral racial representative for elf-kind in Vergen. He slept in fits and bursts, spending most nights plotting. He'd mapped the perimeter of the ghostly battlefield as best he could, even started trying to find information or research on wraiths and how best to battle them from the dwarven scholars in the city, few though they were.

Although the city held a constant background-buzz of Geralt, Iorveth did not let it affect his work. The scoia'tael were used to their leader being a bit brusque and prickly, and the situation was stressful. It was only natural he'd be even less communicative than usual. A suspended state of limbo lowered itself over the elf encampment and the question of whether or not they could start living lives or remain tensed and ready for war lived unasked on everyone's lips. Iorveth did not have an answer, but he desperately wanted it to be the former. He longed to see elven children running barefoot over streets where craftsmen re-trained their hands on spindles and lathes rather than swords and bows. 

That future existed, he could smell it, and in that future lay a wicked promise of rough sword hands and a particularly musky scent he'd too quickly begun to associate with comfort and safety.

Iorveth could fix this, fix his entire problem with the witcher. He had a plan. If he could simply stick the witcher to his sorceress, Iorveth could ignore emotion and be content with a future alone. He was no stranger to pain, emotional, or otherwise. He'd hunt the sorceress Triss down himself and return the conquering hero, hand her over to Geralt, and the witcher would stop looking at him with those big honey-colored eyes. A perfect plan. There were several people one rung down on the ladder of command that Iorveth had been grooming to take his place eventually should he either die or be successful in his drive for a world without interspecies prejudices. He picked the eldest, the one who had been loyal the longest, and set him up to take over while Iorveth enacted his stratagem.

Iorveth took a bow, arrows, and some small provision. The excuse was that he would try to find more areas suitable to elf habitation so the elves might expand their living quarters beyond the city walls. Requests to follow him were all rejected summarily. No, they needed everyone together in case the worst happened. The free elves of Vergen could manage without him. Eventually, his reasoning was accepted. Most assumed he was becoming mad with the confinement. 

Iorveth slipped out of the elf camp quietly. He didn't need a plucky, eager elf trying to follow him when his greatest wish was to be left alone. Someone likely assumed there was some secret mission they weren't being told about, and while they were correct, no one could correctly guess the nature of that mission.

The further away his steps carried him from the city, the faster Iorveth ran. Once Vergen was out of sight, he sprinted, scaling walls to take nearly impossible shortcuts towards the woodland's distant green. It sang to his bones. Elves craved the forest and its lush embrace- any forest would do. Their religion had fallen to the wayside when the humans invaded, buried in the rubble of ancient elven cities. Some still worshiped the old religion, some hoped the gods of elf-kind simply slept, but many felt that their corpses rotted and fed the forests. 

It did not surprise Iorveth that so many elf men coupled with Dryads and that women would desire to become them. To become part of something truly blessed, othered, but sacred.

Many a night, when the battles were brutal, and the loss of life too dear, Iorveth had wished the Dryad kingdom accepted men. He daydreamed that any who desired it could go into the Green and stretch their roots over all the world until all lands were cradled in bark and leaves, every pool of water and river containing the gift of eternity.

When the mountain's stone gave way to earth soft earth and grass, a weight was lifted from the elf's soul. Vergen and its stone might be their new nation's seat, but the woods were home for him.

He slept that first night in the branches of a sturdy tree counting stars. Three days spent exploring and discovering this new place and fantasizing about what glories his people could erect when the fighting was done. Three days, and still, the witcher was a thorn in his head and heart. 

The search for Miss Marigold heated his emotions, and bitterness boiled into anger. He'd come across campsites occasionally that had clearly been used for a night with nothing but the indentations of a kneeling man in the grass to show anyone had been there. Iorveth knew, upon finding them, that the witcher was here and prowling for his own means. 

"Good," Iorveth thought to himself, "I'll be rid of him quicker if he finds her first. It will be better that way."

The woods were not without their dangers. Several battalions of soldiers from the enemy, King Hanselt, had become stranded on this side of the mist as well, unable to go back to their forces. Iorveth rather enjoyed picking them off from a distance, narrowing their numbers, and inducing terror before slicing them to ribbons. It was therapeutic. Harpies were not nearly so much fun. It reminded him of pulling weeds in his mother's garden.

His hunt brought danger back into his life and caution to his step as Iorveth prowled the forests looking for traces of the sorceress and the Kingslayer. Every rustle of leaves put him on edge, and Iorveth welcomed the tension to his shoulders and ache in his fingers as the bow cut into century-old callouses. He found a camp, then, that had been returned to at least twice by soldiers sleeping on the ground. 

Iorveth decided he'd have some fun with them.

Traps were laid, things he made of string and wood and leaves. He strategically laid sticks and stones to alert him when they returned to camp and waited, scrabbling up a tree to perch. He shifted with the branches that concealed him, slowly matching the creaking of wood and rustle of leaf to his delicate movements. No one could have noticed the elf, waiting, watching.

Day turned to evening, and Iorveth was beginning to suspect he'd been wasting his time. Anger at himself welled up, and he was nearly ready to give up when a branch snapped underfoot somewhere in the undergrowth. A figure emerged from the shadows, and Iorveth felt the thrill of the kill rear its head.

He lost no time and dropped from the tree, loosing arrows in rapid succession. He heard arrow hit wood, then metal. He fired thrice more and darted into the underbrush, poised to fire again.

Iorveth had expected to see soldiers rush at him then, at least five men ready to die at his pleasure, but it was only one. The one did not advance, and the elf suspected he'd pinned the bastard to the thick trunk of a tree. Less of a fight, but more satisfying. A pinned target meant he could choose how to dispatch the filthy human scum threatening his peace. He could take his time. The arrow returned his quiver and bow to his back, and Iorveth advanced, dagger drawn.

A sword would end it too quickly today, and this whoreson deserved it for making him waste his time.

He'd barely made a fourth step when the figure in the deep shadows spoke his name from the twilight.

Iorveth picked up his pace. His nerves had wobbled and struck him through. There was no one here to prevent whatever he wished to do, and if this was the day he died from stupidity, then that was the way fate had ordained it.

He raised his arm and slammed the witcher backward as hard as he could with Geralt arrowed against a tree. Iorveth smelled no blood. Pity. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" 

  
  


This was not how Geralt had expected this meeting to go. 

Three arrows pinned his clothes solidly to the wood, and he was lucky they'd only pierced his clothes and armor. He felt a light graze against his shoulder as he'd dodged, the arrows were shot sure and strong, and by the name of every god, Geralt thought Iorveth was beautiful when he was angry. The witcher could endure a few light stabs for this man. He was entirely ready to do so. 

Geralt had been following the corpses Iorveth had left in his wake and slain a few enemy soldiers himself in his search. Many a body had been examined in the name of finding the elf. Geralt admired the efficient cruelty Iorveth employed when he killed. The deaths were often quick, but not one looked like it hadn't been incredibly painful. 

Stars flashed behind his eyes when Iorveth slammed him backward, head hitting bark. Geralt's heartbeat accelerated slightly, further shocking him, as it's quite a thing for someone to make a witcher's heart skip a beat. 

"Looking for you."

His voice was entirely calm without a hint of emergency, nor hinting issue back at the city. Iorveth snarled at him, eye narrowing to an angry slit. Geralt felt a knife against his belly.

"Why. There isn't anything you need from me, witcher. Unless you still need to be rocked to sleep at night?" He mocked. "Bring your bedfellows home with you if you need someone to wake you when you scream in the night." He shoved the witcher again. Their faces were close enough that Geralt could feel the elf's breath against his skin. He was trapped between an elf and a tree, and Geralt couldn't say he minded as he looked up at Iorveth. He remembered the last time Iorveth was this close, when the succubus wore his face, and craved those marred lips. 

"I needed you. To talk to you." The will was there, but the words were not. Confessions of affection were not Geralt's forte.

Iorveth released the witcher's throat and put his knife away, spitting on the ground. "You haven't immediately told me Saskia is dead, nor that my men are in danger. Perhaps there's something else, something worse, you have got a twisted sense of priority. After all, you saw fit to look for a memory cure for you, not an emergency by any means, instead of telling me my best man was set to be murdered on a death barge, and Letho intended to kill me." 

Geralt reached his free hand up to wrench an arrow from the tree. It took several tries. Iorveth had a strong arm. "Didn't know where to find you at the time. Elven ruins seemed like a good place to find an elf."

The witcher set to work on another, struggling further. He could not find the correct angle to get proper leverage on the arrow.

"Oh, for…" Iorveth wrenched each arrow out with a single well-placed yank, leaving Geralt dumbstruck. "There, you're free. Tell me what you need to tell me, and we'll return to our lives, I have things to do that don't involve you."

Geralt rolled his shoulders as his mind started reeling. Was he supposed to just come out and say it? What did people do in situations where they needed to confess to a person who wanted to stab them? Past Geralt must have done it to Yennefer, but Iorveth wasn't her. He was strange and wonderful and horrible and cruel; he was a deer and a fox that Geralt wanted to sink his teeth into and hold until they both died. Iorveth made him feel strange and full of life. All these thoughts mangled in the witchers head as he gaped, attempting to piece together a coherent sentence.

"You're…. Very strange." he managed, and immediately wished Iorveth would cut his throat. Now would be an excellent time to stop talking and return to Vergen. 

He did not do that.

"You're strange, and I can't understand. And I need to. And everything is strange around you, and I've been having dreams. You're in them, but they're wrong." His voice sounded strangled. Iorveth looked… Geralt couldn't really figure out what that facial expression was, tight-lipped and wide-eyed. Geralt stepped towards him, hands out and palms up, trying to make Iorveth understand. "I had to follow you. It's eating me." He was speaking faster and faster. "You're something, to me, and I didn't have names for it, but there was a succubus, and then when Cedric died, he said this thing that I don't really understand, but it might be about you, about devils and swords and… elvish words I understand, sort of, but don't, and I am empty and cold, except when I'm with you, and I want to die and forget and remember  _ all of the time _ -" Iorveth cut him off by giving him a very hard slap to the face.

They looked at each other as the woods fell silent.

"You had the nerve to call me mad when you're the fucking madman," Iorveth grumbled.

Geralt's cheek stung horrifically, and he laughed. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I am, probably." He rubbed his cheek and did not try to meet Iorveth's eyes again. It was a nice night, Geralt mused to himself, letting the pain calm him. 

Iorveth could see his handprint go slightly pink on the witcher's pale cheek. In the half-light of the sunset, it looked almost like Geralt was blushing. 

All of what had come out of the witcher's mouth sent Iorveth reeling. It mostly sounded like nonsense. It was probably nonsense. Perhaps losing his memory had made him incapable of thought more complex than what Iorveth had experienced of him up to now. This felt akin to dealing with a raving lunatic. 

Still, Geralt looked so sad after the slap, so downtrodden, and that laugh had rung hollow through both of their chests. 

Iorveth sighed. "Alright. Fine, you needed to talk to me so badly you tracked me to the woods, using… something, I don't know what-"

"Corpses." Geralt helpfully supplied.

".... Corpses, yes, I should have been more careful about those. You tracked me here, two days outside of the city on your stupid human legs, and YES, I know you're not a human. You beleaguer this point enough. You tracked me here, and you have something that must be said. I have allowed you to try, and you failed."

Geralt nodded and did not reply.

Iorveth sighed.

"Help me make a fire. Help me make a fire, and we'll talk. You may have a second chance to explain yourself." He'd promised they'd talk in Vergen, back on that ship when they'd touched for that moment. All Iorveth had wanted to say was that he wanted to kiss the witcher and see what would happen, and now enough had transpired that he didn't think it would be that simple.

Geralt would have made it that simple if he'd known.

They worked together in silence, Iorveth and the witcher finding kindling and fallen branches until they had enough wood for the witcher to cast his Igni and warm them up for the night. Each man settled on the ground, side by side, Iorveth's left eye facing Geralt.

Silence stretched its long arms between them, Geralt waiting for Iorveth and Iorveth waiting for Geralt.

The elf finally took the lead.

"Now what was that about the succubus? Is this the one you killed my adjutant over?"

Geralt blinked slowly and did his best to explain. "That one, that's her. I asked her to check something for me. That flute thing. She said there wasn't any magic in it." 

Iorveth nodded slowly. "Yes, that's what I told you. And I'm still not sure why you thought I'd enchanted you. It was rather offensive."

Geralt made a noise of deep, rumbling frustration. "Yes, it's hard to tell the difference between what was going on and magic when you don't know what you're feeling! I've got a handful of memories about memories without the memories themselves. I've got experiences my body remembers, but not my mind. That's it! I have to constantly take other people at their word, and I don't know who's being honest. I have to trust others to guide me, but that's impossible when you're dealing with feelings like these."

Inside, Iorveth was panicking. This sounded a lot like what he was hoping for, and he dreaded it, in part because it might not be what he had dreamt of.

"Feelings about…?" he asked, full of caution.

This time Geralt actually yelled, falling onto his back and covering his face in frustration. "YOU. You, you stubborn fucking elf. You're destroying my brain."

Iorveth processed this for a moment and decided today was a good day to be thrown in a fire for being wrong and pounced on the witcher. 

The impact knocked the wind out of Geralt. Iorveth grabbed the witcher's hands and forced them onto the ground, pinning him there, glaring down at the honey-eyed man. The pupils had gone round again. Instead of acting on propriety or wisdom, he didn't have a plan and went with instinct. 

Geralt was just opening his mouth to question the current situation when Iorveth leaned down and kissed him. The intent was to be rough, but fear still gripped the elf's heart, and he slowed, gently brushing his lips against Geralt's.

As was only natural, Geralt pressed back. Flames ignited his veins, warm joy and satisfaction flooding every inch of his body. He kissed the elf's lips hard, savoring the thin, dry skin and the break where his scar began. Geralt kissed with his heart and soul, and with his hunger. His fingers curled and uncurled, leather gloves creaking and wrists straining against Iorveth's hold. The elf did not let him up but instead shoved back harder. There in the fire, sparks, and leaves, green and gold, the two men let themselves go. 

Iorveth pulled away and stared down at the witcher, a wicked grin cutting over his face. "If you wanted to fuck me, you should have said so earlier, Gwynbleidd." He dove in for another kiss, rougher this time, sinking his sharp teeth into Geralt's lower lip. The witcher groaned beneath him and rolled his hips against Iorveth's, breathless and drunk from his kisses.

Lips parted, and tongues tentatively explored mouths. Iorveth's relaxed his grip and slid his hands upwards, tangling his fingers together with Geralt's. The witcher relished Iorveth's weight on him, the angles and sharpness of the elf's mismatched armor cutting into him. He rolled his hips again, and Iorveth moaned quietly against his mouth, eyelid fluttering beautifully. 

Iorveth came up for air, untangling his fingers from Geralt's as he did so. He needed them free to start undoing his clothes. 

It was much more gracefully done than the last time Geralt had watched him strip. The witcher watched, unblinkingly, and Iorveth smirked down at him.

"All this trouble for a plough, Gwynbleidd?." Iorveth peeled off his gloves and tossed them aside, followed by his heavy leather greatcoat.

The beast in Geralt welled up and demanded satisfaction. He sat up and grabbed Iorveth by the waist, digging his teeth into the elf's neck, into tender flesh. He sucked, bit, and licked every inch he could. Iorveth gasped and groaned, digging his fingers into Geralt's shoulders. Geralt didn't go as far as he did in dreams, but he came close. Skin pinched between powerful jaws coaxing sounds somewhere between moans and yelps of pain out of Iorveth's throat. He mumbled incoherently as animal and man tried to express their need for the witcher, tripping over one another in confused yelps. Iorveth was not one to be outdone and pounced right back, running his tongue along the outside of the witcher's ear, snapping his too-sharp teeth at the air, and clawing his fingers through Geralt's snowy soft locks. 

Everything was too much. Geralt's nerves were aflame. He wanted to get closer to Iorveth, strip him naked, but he also didn't want to let go. Iorveth felt the same. Together, without a coherent word, they set hands fumbling at buckles and straps, all impeded by need. Geralt's cock, hard as steel, caught against Iorveths. He shuddered, pushing back, desperate for more of the sensation. If some part of Iorveth found there was a question of desire, this answered definitively. Iorveth, ever the more coolheaded, struggled to push the witcher off of him, to which Geralt reluctantly complied.

"We won't get anywhere if you don't let me undress you," Iorveth panted, tongue almost lolling out of his mouth. He struggled to his feet and proferred the witcher a hand. "Get up, it's quicker this way."

Again Geralt complied, suddenly yanked to his feet and rapidly being disrobed. Iorveth didn't give Geralt time to reciprocate. Swords clattered to the ground, buttons were undone, and before he knew entirely what was happening, Iorveth was leaving a trail of hard bruises down the witcher's bare chest. He shrugged the last of his clothing off onto the ground and, with far less finesse, began to do the same for Iorveth. The process was much slower, although this time, the elf was the one slowing the production to a grind. He distracted Geralt mightily, palming the witcher's cock through his trousers as he whispered sweet nothings in the elder tongues in Geralt's ear. His breath was hot and tickled Geralt's skin in a compelling way the witcher adored.

Every time they had to separate to remove more clothing, Geralt felt a clawing anxious need to reconnect. "This must be what fizztec users feel like," he mused, sucking gently on Iorveth's nipple the moment it became exposed, moaning when the elf gripped the back of his head and pulled his hair. 

They stood like that together for a while in nothing but their boots and trousers, clawing at bare flesh like animals fighting. The witcher caught Iorveth in another kiss, and the elf felt a shockwave roll through his body. Geralt kissed like trying to fill a void with parts of Iorveth, trying to consume some vital piece of the elf that would complete him. His tongue explored Iorveth's mouth with a strange greed that Iorveth had not experienced in a partner before in his life, and he adored it. 

Geralt's need was infectious, and some strange gears ground together in Iorveth's head, that same aching, deep tunnel vision narrowing down to nothing but Geralt. His responsibilities fell away under Geralt's sword-hardened hands. The rage of barely hours ago drifted away with the smoke of their campfire as Iorveth traced arcane patterns over the scars that crisscrossed the witcher's body. 

Iorveth froze, and all ground to a halt as Geralt went to slip his thumb under the red bandanna and the strap that held it there. Iorveth pushed the witcher off gently, putting them an arms breadth apart.

"No. I don't want that and, let's be honest, neither do you." He gestured to Geralt's body. "Your scars are one thing. They're rugged, they give you character." He gestured to himself. Geralt hadn't had much opportunity to really look at Iorveth as they hadn't been more than an inch apart since standing up. The witcher raked him over with his eyes, so intense Iorveth could nearly feel his stare. "These tattoos on me also give character."

Then he gestured to his face. "This? This is just ugly. I'd wear a half-mask if it weren't so dramatic." 

Geralt wanted to run his tongue up that scar and take the red scarf off with his teeth. 

"So? I've got a scar on my face, too."

Iorveth grimaced. "You've also got both eyes. No one sees this and stomachs it long enough to finish undressing me."

Geralt had no words to reply, and so instead closed their distance and cupped Iorveth's face in his hands, staring into his one brilliant emerald eye. Iorveth felt uncomfortable when they weren't groping one another. Gentle touches felt too intimate. He could feel the heat radiating off of Geralt's body, and the elf tried not to let his heart race.

Geralt slid his hand up and over the headscarf and thumbed the spot where the eye would have been. The mystery of it hurt Geralt's head- was it milky, or burned, or filled in with glass? What did it look like? Cobwebbed skin, veins, boils? It felt smooth and hollow beneath his hand. 

He cradled the back of Iorveth's head and pressed a kiss to the fabric-covered scar while Iorveth's hands drifted to the witcher's hips. His touch was no less intense, but he tried to keep his head cool, motions slow and less aggressive.

"Please," Geralt whispered against him. "Please let me see." 

Iorveth looked down at the witcher and found himself wanting to. Wanting to very, very much. 

He rolled his eye and sighed. "Fine. But if you flee, I reserve the right to shoot you in the back as you go."

Deadly serious, Geralt agreed. "As many arrows as you want. I'd deserve it."

Iorveth drew in a shaky breath and shut his eye. He could put on and take off the headscarf in his sleep; he'd done it so frequently. Once the bandana was off, he did not immediately let his scar show, cupping his hand over his face. Geralt stared at the elf's black, unkempt hair as it stuck out at odd angles, obviously chopped without much care for how it looked. His hand covered the scar on the lip and the eye, and for the second time, Geralt could see the man before the war. The scar aged him terribly. Without it, he'd look barely twenty, and the ancient, faraway look in his eye could be overlooked. 

"Last chance to run. Not every day a dh'oine gets to see an elf so badly marred as this." 

Geralt stood and waited. "Not going to run. I've seen more frightening things than you."

The corner of Iorveth's mouth twitched into a scowl. "Drowners, perhaps? Or nekkers?"

Geralt didn't reply. Iorveth braced himself, letting his hand drop to his side. Some of the unkempt locks fell over the socket, which Geralt brushed away. It was a sunken hollow, eyelid fuzed together from poor healing. The gash seemed to have split his face open from lip to cheek, a fissure of pain. The socket's immediate hollow was black with a ring of angry, healed, pink scar tissue radiating out. 

"They called me beautiful, once," Iorveth mumbled, eye still closed. 

"They still should." Geralt brought him in again and kissed Iorveth as tenderly as he could manage. Every motion and action felt new and unexplored, sending thrill after thrill through Geralt's mind. He didn't suddenly know how to touch Iorveth, didn't get any half-flash thoughts betraying a shared history he was being lied to over. This was, indeed, new, and entirely his. 

Iorveth had not been kissed since receiving the scar, much less without his face covered. Other elves were understanding, of course, but there was not a small amount of snobbery inherent to their culture. Iorveth's disfigurement was not just something challenging to look at. It was a painful reminder that elf kind was just as susceptible to death and destruction and men's ailments as dh'oine. It was a miracle Iorveth had survived, but the cost was his place amongst his people.

Iorveth kissed the witcher back, wrapping his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling their chests flush against each other. It was one thing to see a witcher's muscles working to kill and wholly another one to feel them, like chorded living metal move against your skin. They were both strong, soldiers of different sorts, and they could feel the differences in physique as they touched one another. Iorveth's lean muscle had a steadiness that fascinated Geralt, all sinew and bone. Although he was taller than Geralt, he was a good deal lighter without his armor. Geralt could have been a dancer in some world, yes, but his arms and chest were broad from decades of swinging swords and hefting monsters.

Geralt adored the angular curves of Iorveth's body. He slid his hands over the elf's chest, surprisingly unmarred compared to his own. It was a cruel irony that his face had suffered the bulk of the damage. The witcher's hands met Iorveth's waist and slid to his hips, gripping them gently and pulling him in. 

Iorveth could feel then that Geralt was no less aroused than he had been earlier and laughed quietly into their kiss, nipping at the witcher's lip. "I believe we should pick up where we left off," he grinned, shoving Geralt hard enough to knock the witcher back on his ass. Iorveth followed him to the ground, sinking to his knees and parting Geralt's legs with a decisive push. The elf's cheeks were flushed rosy, and he could not keep a smile off his face. 

"You're so fucking beautiful," Geralt murmured as Iorveth made to undo the ties on the witcher's trousers. The elf smirked up at him, his hair falling in his face providing a strange, whimsical charm. 

"You don't need to keep complimenting me, I'm already going for your cock."

Barely a moment later, Iorveth was marveling at the witcher's prowess. He hefted the witcher's cock in his hand, circling it with his fingers. "Well, well, I can see why you're so popular now. You can't flirt for shit, but I imagine you don't need to." He leaned down and ran his tongue from base to tip, eye focused on Geralt's face. The witcher shuddered, reaching down to gently grab a clump of Iorveth's hair. 

Iorveth sat up a little and sucked delicately on the witcher's cock and bobbed up and down experimentally, slowly applying suction with each successive movement. His hand traveled down to encircle its base, moving gently in time with Iorveth's mouth. It felt too good to be true, and Geralt felt the danger of orgasm climbing close already. The elf shifted, his free hand reaching up to thumb over Geralt's nipples, eliciting a yelp that turned into a sigh of pleasure. He was more sensitive than Iorveth had expected, and that was exciting. 

He ventured further, running his nails down the witcher's chest like claws, leaving five deep, angry, red marks. Geralt's back arched hard into him as Iorveth's lips and tongue worked the witcher's cock, driving it deeper into Iorveth's throat. He gave up using his hands and pushed himself further, fighting to keep from gagging on Geralt's length.

With great effort, his lips made contact with skin, and Iorveth took Geralt's entirety into his mouth. Both of Geralt's hands balled roughly into Iorveth's hair as Iorveth fucked the witcher with his mouth. Geralt's eyes rolled back, and he groaned loudly. 

"So good…" he managed between sharp gasps. 

The memory of Iorveth's first time seeing Geralt almost-naked rose unbidden in the elf's mind, the witcher crawling up between the elf woman's legs. He hadn't looked nearly this eager then, face contorting as he moaned Iorveth's name under his breath. 

The witcher's thighs tensed suddenly, and Iorveth pulled back, letting him spend on himself in shakey bursts, the viscous liquid cascading down Geralt's cock. "I hope that isn't all you've got. I intend to get satisfaction for the trouble you've put me through tonight." Geralt looked downright embarrassed, but his cock did not lose its stiffness. 

He shook his head.

"No. I can go for a while yet. Witcher stamina, s'got some perks." 

"Mmm. Let's see, then." 

The started to do some mental calculations, absently rubbing his hand up and down the witcher's member. He didn't apply enough pressure to make him cum again, fingers light and clever. He teased the broad head of it, cupped and squeezed the witcher's balls, poked and prodded to see what made Geralt squirm. Turned out when it was Iorveth doing it, the answer was "everything." 

"Tragically, we're a bit limited." Iorveth absently ran his tongue over Geralt as he mused on how best to fuck the witcher. "I haven't brought any oils, nor, I suppose, have you. I admit you would probably recover, but I'd rather make you scream from pleasure rather than pain." He scraped his teeth playfully at Geralt's hip. "Tonight, at any rate." 

"I have a proposal," Geralt rasped, and before Iorveth could finish asking what in that gloriously drawling voice, Geralt had sat up and grabbed him by the shoulders. He heaved the elf into his lap, one arm wrapped firmly around Iorveth's waist and the other sandwiched between them. He found the hollow of Iorveth's hip and ground forward, snarling into the elf's mouth. "We're in the woods. Might as well rut like animals if the setting calls for it." 

Iorveth ground against him in agreement. One-handed, Geralt returned the favor Iorveth had done him earlier and opened the elf's trousers, pushing them down. Geralt received little help Iorveth when the elf wasn't trying to touch every inch of the witcher's body or delight in the little shivers he could provoke by pulling the witcher's hair. He matched Geralt for hardness, and the witcher found his companion to be a bit longer than he was and not at all lacking in girth. 

The needy creature that now lived in Geralt's brain demanded it go inside of him at the earliest convenience. It took a good deal of effort to persuade himself that he wanted that experience to be mutually enjoyable, and Iorveth had been correct. They did not have the proper lubricants on them.

Geralt managed to placate the part of his brain that demanded sex regularly in exchange for warm fuzzy feelings by running his thumb across the bottom of Iorveth's cock, pausing at the tip to palm it against his rough, careful hand. Iorveth moaned and bucked forward, allowing the witcher to grip him firmly as Iorveth humped him. "You've done this before, Gwynbleidd," he accused.

Geralt nodded. "Never on a man, though." His thumb rubbed the underside of Iorveths' cock, massaging the head in slow motions. "Plenty of women with cocks. Nice ones, too."

Iorveth laughed. "Fair point- Fuck do that again." Geralt obliged. The witcher was still sensitive, but he needed to be closer to the elf. He released Iorveth's cock, hand sticky with the preamble to ejaculate. Iorveth whined in complaint but quickly changed his tune to a satisfied grunt when Geralt shifted to press their cocks together and took them both in his hand and began to rub slowly, panting against Iorveth's flesh. Geralt pulled his partner's head down and ran his tongue along the elf's ear slant. Iorveth trembled in his arms. The arm around Iorveth's waist pulled him in closer as Geralt desperately rubbed their cocks.

Iorveth swore in dead tongues, cutting the night air through with obscenity. He was burning up, either with the fire at his back or the man in front of him. Geralt's eyes looked beastly in the night. As Iorveth fought for something to focus on to prevent his eyes glazing over and brain giving over to long-missed pleasure, the part of his head that still remembered danger existed saw a deep and unabiding hunger within the witcher's eyes.

It thrilled Iorveth to his core.

The elf scraped and scratched at the witcher's back, sunk his teeth into Geralt's neck and sucked, left trails of bruises up and down his neck, jaw, and shoulders. Anything that said, "This is mine. For a time, you who see this, know it is mine." He accidentally broke skin once or twice in his enthusiasm, and in a wild moment of aband, he lapped it clean. He had the taste of the witcher, now, and would not forget it.

Geralt made the loudest and most beautiful sounds when Iorveth bit him. Next time, if there was a next time, please by gods and wood let there be a next time, Iorveth would take his time and leave many purple and black gifts for Geralt to discover upon himself the next day, leave a scar or two. 

Thinking about it was enough to drive Iorveth up to the edge of climax, screaming as his body convulsed, and his hands balled into fists. Geralt released Iorveth's waist and gripped his choppy black hair, pressing their foreheads together in a perverse mirror of Iorveth's same gesture on the ship. His two gold eyes stared intently into Iorveth's green one and the empty, void socket. Geralt desperately tried to keep his second orgasm down and could not resist any longer. When he felt Iorveth's pulse hit its peak, and his thighs start to shake, Geralt let go, spending just after Iorveth began to. 

He cried out Iorveth's name like a spell that might keep them there together for all time, praying everything might freeze so he could be here, now, touching and covered in Iorveth. It was bliss.

They shuddered for moments after, breathing in each other's musky scent and shaking in the afterglow. The fire had begun to burn low, and night had settled in around them entirely. Iorveth's sharp tongue did not remember itself for several minutes.

"So," he gasped, "better than your sorceresses?" He was trying to sound mocking, but it's hard to do so when one still has aftershocks from cumming on a man's stomach. 

Geralt kissed him again, tenderly and slowly. "Beyond comparison," he whispered against the elf's lips. Once again, the witcher managed to surprise Iorveth, full of sincerity and gentle touches. The witcher lifted his hand, covered in their mutual fluids, and licked himself clean. It was something to savor, it was something of them. Iorveth watched, fascinated. 

"I can honestly say you've taken to this much faster than I expected. The great womanizer Geralt of Rivia, rolling around in the forest with a rebel elf. Tsk, I'll have to report to Dandelion to amend your stories." Iorveth tried to sit back, but Geralt had both arms around him now, face buried in the crook of his neck. The elf accepted the affection with a little grumbling. 

"Do it," Geralt's voice was muffled against Iorveth's skin. "It can be a story about the most beautiful elf man rescuing a witcher from himself by being a smug bastard." He pressed tender kisses to Iorveth's neck and jaw. If this warmth ever ended, he would die. Of this, Geralt was certain. If there was a way for him to put Iorveth somewhere just for him where they could be alone for always, or if Geralt knew how to return to that blessed Isle where he and Yennefer had allegedly been sequestered, he would take Iorveth there in a heartbeat. 

"Mmm, I don't think I've managed to save you from yourself with one good fuck," Iorveth ran his fingers through the witcher's hair, absently plucking at errant leaves which had become tangled therein.

"Does that mean you'll sleep with me again?" The witcher asked. He didn't bother to mask the heart-breaking hope in his voice.

Iorveth put on a show of hemming and hawing between yelping giggles as Geralt squeezed his ass and tried to tickle him with kisses. "Yes, fine, yes! Both in the literal and suggestive." Geralt crowed with victory, pushing the two of them over and rolling them onto their sides. The grass was soft, the night was warm, and Geralt of Rivia lay next to an elf so sharp and beautiful he could have strangled Great in his sleep, and the witcher's ghost would have said thank you.

An elf he had failed to talk to about how he really felt.

  
  
  



	7. Troubled Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Iorveth has a backstory and Geralt's friends are smart enough to notice what is right in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the last chapter: I realize the creator of the Witcher says that elves have no canines and twice as many tiny teeth as humans, but I don't like that, so they have four really sharp canines and a normal number of teeth. Also most information about Iorveth I have invented, this is based on some guesswork and forum searching as far as his age goes, and then the rest is just me making things up.

Geralt spent the night tangled in an elf's arms, pressing kisses to his eye and face until they both drifted off, waking up to the cold welcome of a dawn alone. The fire had been artfully banked, only his bedroll remained, and Iorveth was no-where to be found. For one hellish heart-stopping moment, Geralt thought he'd imagined the entire experience and would have to try and make Iorveth understand a second time, and perhaps be arrowed to death during it. He scrambled to his feet and found his armor neatly piled on a nearby stone, which it certainly had not been the night before. 

He'd fallen asleep shirtless, which was a good sign he hadn't imagined last night. He also found the clothes he recalled discarding were neatly piled not too far off, meaning he'd either sleep-tidied, or else someone had come along and sorted out his clothing. Geralt ran his fingers over bruises and bite marks on his chest, shivering when he pressed his fingers to the light teeth marks. Experimentally he dug a fingernail into one of the wounds, concluding Iorveth's teeth felt monumentally better.

So it had happened at least. He sighed and ached, checking inside his glove for his little token. 

Comfort swelled in him when he felt it, and immediately left when he pulled the fabric out to run between his fingers. The scrap he'd coveted was a deep, dirty green, made to blend into the forest canopy and prevent being noticed in the undergrowth.

This scrap was red.

  
  


Solitude had calmed Iorveth down enough to think, and his little roll in the grass the night before muddled him right up again. That hadn't felt like the sort of one-and-done scrabble he'd had with other scoia'tael. It reminded him much more of evenings long ago, centuries past, when Iorveth had been a young man who hunted rabbits and picked flowers to make favors for pretty men and women instead of a terrorist on the run. 

He'd woken up first, blinking blearily. The witcher slept as soundly as he had the first night they were together on the ship. Iorveth could picture it perfectly- he ought to have, with how much time he'd spent staring at the witcher in those two, eternal nights. The way Geralt's hair almost glowed in the moonlight reminded Iorveth of the white-tipped breakers of waves as they crashed on the shore, a terribly romantic notion he'd tried to shake free since then. 

In the budding sunlight, Iorveth was keenly aware his facial scars would be much easier to see. Even if the rumors of witcher's enhanced night time visions were true, the elf would rather cover up and hide. The witcher thought he was pretty in the firelight, but no one would want him when the sun was out. He was sure of that. 

A tenderness came over the elf as he re-dressed. Geralt's tools and clothes were more scattered than Iorveth's were. He collected them carefully, laying them out like he would his own. One of Geralt's gloves was wet with morning dew, prompting Iorveth to shake it clean. Too much damp could warp the leather, and witchers lived almost as hand to mouth as revel elves. As he shook it dry, a scrap of familiar green fluttered to the ground.

Under any other circumstance, Iorveth would have woken the witcher up and demanded to know why in all the wide world the witcher had a part of Iorveth's clothing stuck in his glove. Under any normal circumstances, he also wouldn't have fucked a witcher in the woods after nearly turning him into a very oversized pincushion. 

Nor would he have wanted desperately to find Triss, not to get Geralt out of his hair but to actually see what was going on between the two of them, and therefore gauge what was happening between Geralt and Iorveth.

Temptation screamed in Iorveth's ears to run back to the city and pretend none of this had happened, accuse the witcher of being a fool and imagining their entire interaction, but he didn't. Something about Geralt snatching a token like a knight might from a lady struck him as sweet. But he couldn't let the witcher get away consequenceless, and a wicked part of him wanted to see if he could fuck with the witcher's head a little bit more. The implied possessiveness warmed him, as well. How long had it been since someone wanted to possess Iorveth?

He pocketed the green fabric scrap and reached up to untuck a small corner of his bandana, slicing off a sliver. Behind him, Geralt shifted in his sleep. Iorveth quickly shoved the rag into the witcher's glove and darted away. He'd return with excuses, but there were conversations he was not ready to have just now, and the why of the token was not something he wanted to discuss just yet.

He hunted up nuts and berries for food, hauling with him enough to share with the witcher over their ashen fire. Geralt was fully clothed by the time he got back.

Iorveth handed him his portion, which the witcher took. Geralt hesitated for a beat before leaning down to kiss the elf's cheek. "Nice of you to think of me." 

Iorveth could not deny the gesture caught him off guard. "Well, I'm told providing breakfast is dh'oine custom after a plough. I wouldn't want you to think I wasn't a giving enough partner." 

"I'd never think so poorly of you. It's not every day a man can say a legendary war criminal pounced on him and lived to tell the tale."

"True, witcher. Nor can everyone say he's gotten cum on a witcher's chest."

Geralt grinned at him. They sat by the vestiges of their fire, happily crunching on Iorveth's finds. The witcher's smile did not fade once over the sparse meal, nor did his eyes waver from Iorveth. 

"I was surprised you didn't stab me afterward. What, oh what, will the other elves think?" 

Iorveth pinged an acorn cap at the witcher. "I shall be shamed by all, my virtue spoiled entirely. Now no-one shall wish to wed me, and I am an old maid already without a dowry to speak of. Tragic," he replied drily. 

The witcher's mouth curled into a smirk. "Have to spirit you away, then. Dandelion can spin a horrible rhyme about the Witcher who spoiled the great king of the scoia'tael." 

Iorveth squinted at him. "I'm not a king."

"I know," Geralt nodded, "but King makes a more interesting story. I don't know much, but I know that Dandelion thinks that's true."

They laughed over the idea, trading awful rhymes until the sun fully brought its face over the horizon. Iorveth's cheek tingled where the witcher had kissed him. In his life, post-coital affection was something that happened to other people. 

Geralt wanted to hold his hand and settle for hours, trading barbs, but responsibility was tugging at his brain. 

The witcher had a job to do, and it was a job only a witcher could do, but not one he had to do alone.

Iorveth came with him when Geralt got up from the fire to set about his work. They didn't negotiate, nor discuss it. At the moment, it seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do, and questioning it would ruin the magic. 

Together they found a deeply sad troll in a chasm, stirring a soup of men and elves and mourning both the loss of his wife and not keeping Triss prisoner any longer. Letho, the Kingslayer had lost her to the troll during some part of the teleportation process. Geralt made Iorveth hang back while he negotiated for information. The witcher did not make threats, nor did he draw his sword at any point in the interaction, shocking and impressing Iorveth immensely. No dh'oine he knew could keep so calm and kind around trolls. The troll was clearly in distress and more than ready to give them a red scarf of the sorceress's if they could bring his wife back to him.

Iorveth marveled openly at the witcher. "Translator for trolls? My, I thought that level of reasoning beyond you, Geralt. Maybe you are more than a set of pretty swords after all."

"I am. I've also got a nice ass."

As they walked, the witcher told Iorveth stories that Geralt had heard about himself. The other witchers at Caer Moren had told him about trolls he'd been friends with as a boy. There was an itch, he said, for Geralt to try and help monsters before he hurt them. There was even an alleged vampire he'd been very close to for a while. 

Iorveth listened with rapt attention. The witcher rarely spoke so many words at a time, and Iorveth didn't want to stop hearing his voice. The man had an honest passion for the creatures of this world, and the world itself. He must have spent an incredible amount of time re-learning everything, re-learning himself, in the short time he'd been conscious. 

Geralt was satisfied to command so much of Iorveth's attention. Being in the elf's presence created a constant background-radiation of joy, and while there was still the twist of his gut that wanted to jealously guard this treasure of a man, this mitigated it. 

The clash of blades and sound of a she-troll bellowing with raged interrupted their pleasant little walk, and soon they were back to Geralt's second-favorite Iorveth-based activity: Fighting alongside him.

This time Iorveth had his own weapons on him, drawing two wickedly curved swords from his belt and dashing forward, sparks flying as one blade glanced off a man's shield, scraping off blue and red paint with a black cat's head superimposed over top. There was no time to speak or the option to surrender, and soon Iorveth had felled all but four of a formerly ten-man group. Geralt had been nearly driven to distraction, watching Iorveth work, slicing limbs and heads with surgical precision. He noticed that, often, Iorveth would ensure he could see the face of whoever he was killing, giving them a split-second to realize what was happening before dealing a killing blow.

One last idiot tried to charge the witcher, blasted backward by Aard onto the waiting blades of Iorveth. The remaining men cowered and begged forgiveness. Iorveth's wicked streak had gotten into Geralt, and so he turned to the elf to let him decide, as the she-troll was busy licking her wounds and trying to figure out if the elf and witcher were going to turn on her next. 

Iorveth considered for a moment. "I think I ought to charge you a toll, for wasting our time. Let me see… Dicé, miré, sparé, va…" he used an old elf counting song from his childhood, almost surprised he remembered, pointing his sword at each man in turn until he came to one last trembling soldier. "...Dicé, miré, sparé,  _ Te _ ." He swung his sword in a neat arc at the last word, slicing beautifully through the man's neck. A spray of blood arced outwards to paint a stone wall across from them sickly crimson.

"Now, you may go." The men scrambled off. While Iorveth had been having his fun, Geralt was busy talking up the she-trolls husband, about how sorry he was, how he would never do such a thing again, he had promised! Why if she came home, he'd give the prized scarf over to the witcher! 

She only agreed for the witcher's sake. Once again, Iorveth was impressed.

Geralt wandered over to the elf and draped an arm around his shoulders. "Good work, good cut. What was that you were chanting, anyway? Sounded familiar."

"You've probably heard children singing it. It's a counting song, I believe it even rhymes when translated." He recited it again, first in Elder Speak and then translated. "Speak look shoot go, Let us see which one shall go, if I find you you will die, with an arrow in your eye. Speak, look, shoot, YOU." It was not a pleasant song. "Naturally, the one counting is encouraged to repeat "speak, look, shoot, go" at the end as many times as they like to build up some suspense."

Geralt nodded solemnly. "Naturally. Good to know children are little monsters, no matter what the species."

Iorveth agreed. "Yes, thank goodness I'm too old to produce one anymore."

Geralt shot the elf a withering look. "Because we have to be so concerned about getting me pregnant." 

"I shall try my level best to prevent it. You've heard the story of the mage and his lover, who ploughed him so often that people would joke it was a miracle the other man wasn't with child?"

They joked with each other all the way back to the troll's cave, happy to receive both a horn to summon the trolls should the need ever arise and the coveted scarf. Geralt shoved it unceremoniously into his pocket. 

Reminders that he was not the only person getting into the witcher's trousers sent shocks through Iorveth. He stayed quiet until they were a good ways away from the troll cave in case anyone else showed up needing Geralt's help with an urgent marital matter. "Not putting her scarf in your glove, then?"

He saw fear in Geralt's eyes. The witcher gaped, looking for the words to respond, and was never more grateful that they were interrupted by harpies. Iorveth did not bring it up again. 

  
  
  


Phillipa was indisposed when they arrived, her apprentice bent over a bed and crying out with pleasure as the sorceress, half-dressed in her nightshirt, beat the girl's buttocks with a leather belt. Iorveth coughed politely, and even he had to admit the sorceresses were reasonably impressive in their nonchalance at being caught mid-tryst. The conversation was altogether pleasant, with Iorveth watching the witcher's face to see his eyes strayed to either of the women. They didn't, and he remained strictly professional as the sorceress hastily promised to do her best to find Triss, reminded them they still needed to find that bigger power source, and shoo them out of the room to continue where she left out.

"You know," Geralt began evenly, "If I didn't know better, I'd say those two were fucking in there."

Iorveth gasped with mock-scandal. "What? No! Surely that was simply the delicate processes of feminine life we have witnessed!" 

"Maybe the apprentice had a book we couldn't see, and Phillipa was just coincidentally airing out her belt collection."

Iorveth nodded as they went down the street, not really knowing where they were walking. They didn't care. "Or perhaps she'd been suspended by the belt and somehow comically tripped and fell onto the bed on all fours, her clothes flying to the four winds as she went."

Geralt nodded sagely. "It's definite there was a third person there before, as evidenced by the belt. A cleaning spell gone awry that made away with them, both of the women's clothes, and leaving only a belt behind."

They theorized back and forth until they found themselves back at the inn. It didn't even occur to them not to go in together, buy drinks, and settle in at a table. They sat close together, knees and elbows and arms touching back and forth. Whispers passed over their heads about the strangeness of the scoia'tael leader and the witcher sharing a space so readily, and the comfortably warm aura of the two radiated out to permeate the bar—something about the cozy scene unsettled and comforted the other patrons by turns.

Geralt and Iorveth drank and talked the afternoon away. There were things to be done, and Geralt had a reasonably good idea of where the dreams harpies stole were and how to get to them, but he'd done an excellent job of finding leads today, and he deserved a break. This is what he told himself as Iorveth brushed foam out of the witcher's scraggly beard with his thumb. 

Afternoon lazily rolled over into evening, and the aches and pains of life settled into their bones. Geralt leaned in to whisper in Iorveth's ear, something about the inn backing up to a hot spring and bathhouse. The prospect of seeing each other naked again spurred them on and out.

From a table full of dwarves and one human bard, Zoltan and Dandelion exchanged concerned looks.

"That weren't normal." 

"I couldn't agree more, Zoltan." 

"Is there aught we can  _ do  _ about it, is the question." Zoltan took a shot of vodka.

Dandelion had to shrug. "I think there are definitely things we COULD do. A better question is,  _ should  _ we. Can you remember him ever looking that happy with  _ her _ ? Besotted, yes. Aroused? Absolutely. But not happy."

The dwarf reluctantly agreed. "Not with either of 'em. Hasn't got that cloudy, faraway look, neither. I thought that's what being a lovestruck witcher looked like."

Dandelion threw his hands in the air. "So did I!" 

The bard joined Zoltan in the vodka. "Of all the men, I didn't think it'd be that one. I can't believe he chose that murderous terrorist of an elf." 

Zoltan shrugged one-shouldered. "Tha's the part I think is the most believable. Our boy's got a taste for danger."

"You know what, that's very fair. If anyone's brave enough to plough Iorveth the Butcher, it's our boy." There was almost a hint of pride in his voice, and then concern washed over his face. "What do you think she'll do if we ever find her? Yen's not exactly the forgiving type."

Zoltan heaved a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't even think about it, lad. One thing we can be sure of, whatever happens, it'll be explosive."

The two old friends toasted to that.

  
  


The bathhouse had been carved into the depths of the mountain through a dwarven cave-system, each "tub" actually cut into the walls from stone. Through a series of cleverly hidden pipes, hot water from an underground geyser filled each one with steaming water, creating an air of seclusion. Dim lanterns lined the walls, providing more ambiance than light, as the tunnels were mostly illuminated with lichen. Iorveth was grateful for the privacy and dim light, but he still ducked his head under the water before Geralt got in. His black hair plastered itself over his empty eye socket.

They melted into the hot bath, the alcohol and temperature turning their muscles to jelly. Iorveth settled himself on a stone bench, and Geralt rested his head on the elf's shoulder. With such privacy from the steam and thick rock walls, they could have gone another round with no guests being the wiser, but neither had the energy to do more than sit. 

Geralt took the opportunity to look at Iorveth, really look. The elf's reluctance to allow Geralt to see him for all he was bothered the witcher and his sense of natural curiosity drove him to take in as much as possible. He admired Iorveth's scars but also pondered how the elf had retained so few. Geralt was more scar tissue than skin at this point, and Iorveth had to be at least as old as he. He reasoned that, perhaps, the usual Scoia'tael sparring partners did not have quite so large teeth as witchers. Humans didn't have talons or weigh several tons, either.

Iorveth leaned back, draping one of his arms on the tub's side and the other around the witcher's shoulders. Geralt took this as an invitation to snuggle closer, running his fingers over Iorveth's ribs and stomach. 

Naturally, his attention drifted to Iorveth's tattoo. It was a truly massive work of art, the likes of which Geralt had never seen on man nor elf. Impressive not only in size, he found he'd also never seen anything in its style before either.

What most only saw as branches upon Iorveth's neck was so much more intricate when fully uncovered. The tattoo started below Iorveth's hip as roots tangling and twisting over his upper thigh, then twining together into a tree trunk. This quickly gave way to branches and vines rolling up the elf's torso. Within the branches, Geralt could make out flowers- dogwood, roses, violets- and the occasional animal peeping through. Most of the skin between the branches was bare, as if waiting for inspiration to strike and Iorveth to finish filling them in. It looked like it had taken ages, and Geralt said so.

"Two centuries of work there," Iorveth murmured, allowing his eye to drift shut as steam clouded his vision. "My work, for the most part, except the back." He slumped forward slowly, arms dropping into the pool, the tip of his nose just touching the water. "Cedric did the rest." 

Geralt could see a slight change in the pattern as the tattoo moved out of reach, although he had to admit Iorveth must be very flexible to have done as much as he did. 

"You knew each other a long time?"

"Mmm. He's a distant cousin, a few years younger. We didn't grow up together, exactly, but I've tried to look out for him whenever possible."

"Is that why he was in Flotsam?"

Iorveth snorted. "No. I wouldn't have picked Flotsam for him in a millennia, but he refused to settle elsewhere once he found out I was headed that way. His branch of the family lived there before the war. They're responsible for most of those ruins you were traipsing through."

Thet fell silent again, Geralt tracing the tattoo over Iorveth's back. The lines tapered to become more delicate but more structured. Iorveth's linework was spectacular but strangely different from other elf tattoo work he'd seen, and it's uniqueness tickled something in the back of Geralt's mind.

"I've seen work like this before," he murmured as Iorveth sat back up, tilting his head to look at the witcher. "In a ruin. It was old. Older than the ones at Flotsam." he leaned back and rubbed his eyes, hot stone soothing his muscles. "A long, long time ago. Elf ruins. They were near…"

"Brokilon." Iorveth interrupted stiffly. "You saw something like it near Brokilon. Near the borders of Velen." 

Flickers of memory rose in the sea of the witcher's mind. Geralt flinched and rubbed his temples, the world suddenly swimming around him. Through the mists of magic, a memory emerged.

Iorveth leaned in and laid a hand on Geralt's shoulder. "What's happening? Talk through it." Iorveth misidentified Geralt's distress shellshock. He'd seen many a man unable to process war memories, and the witcher ought to have more of those than most.

Geralt did his best to narrate his memory as it came to him as he saw his foster daughter Ciri nearly made into a Dryad by their Queen. He described her taking a cup full of the magical waters of Brokiloen, waters that would wipe her memory and remove her humanity. He talked, blank-eyed, of his terror as she'd swallowed it down. He described the tug of destiny when the cup fell from her hands, and she smiled, unchanged, his child of destiny. He did not see fit to mention the sudden realization that the tug of destiny was not entirely dissimilar to the tug he'd felt the first time Iorveth had touched him in the ruins back in Flotsam.

Once the witcher was done, Iorveth let them sit in silence until speaking again. "You're an interesting man, Gwynbleidd. Do you remember much else about this Ciri?"

Geralt shook his head. "I can't think of anything specific, but I remember I adore her. I know we trained together at Care Moren, and I know that I would do just about anything in the world to make her happy, to keep her safe." He had the warmth and love of a father in his voice, and Iorveth felt his heart break a bit for the Geralt. 

Geralt turned his head back towards the elf, letting his hands slip back into the water. He needed to think of something else, but one thing nagged at Geralt. 

"How did you know I meant Brokilon?"

It was Iorveth's turn to be uncomfortable. He turned his head and stared at the far wall. "My people- not elves, but my family, we originate from there. That is where I grew up. My sisters and I." 

Geralt felt suddenly deeply ashamed that he hadn't really considered what Iorveth's past had been like. He knew Iorveth had a history, of course, but what might have transpired before the elf became a freedom fighter hadn't crossed Geralt's mind. He had no recollection of himself, why should other people? Geralt didn't push, waiting just as patiently as Iorveth had for him. The elf almost hoped the witcher would change the subject so Iorveth wouldn't have to, but he didn't, and so the elf continued. It was only fair.

"Before the humans really began their push in that direction, we lived there. It was called…" he paused, then frowned. "I can't remember what my home was called. It has been too long. But I remember my family, my sisters. There were four of them, and then me. They are all older than I." He held up his hand and counted off. "Ita, Morna, Riona, Aednat, and me. Then there was my mother and my father. Truly in love, they were. I was a surprise. We're not meant to be fertile after a certain point, but still, here was Iorveth. They saw me as a miracle and a half, and had to name me on the spot."

He shut his eye and leaned into the witcher as he spoke. "Aednat and Morna dwell in Dol Blathanna. One of the dozen or so children there is my great-great-niece, one of Morna's descendants. I've never met the tyke. Likely never will." Geralt ran his fingers through the elf's wet hair. "Scoia'tael are not welcome to settle there, another Nilfgardian betrayal." 

Geralt tried to shift back to happier memories. "Your parents, did they teach you to shoot?" 

He felt Iorveth smile a little. "Yes. It was my mother, in fact. She taught all my sisters as well, but I was always the best. She was reluctant to teach me, I had to beg to learn. She relented once she found out I'd been bullying other children to borrow their bows."

Geralt snorted. "You were a little terror."

"Indeed. There was a lot of talk when I was born about family tradition and passing things down that I never understood. The women in my family are full of secrets. I think mother was worried I'd hurt myself if she didn't take over my education." He laughed aloud, a sad and hollow sound echoing off of the cave walls of the bathhouse. 

"When the dh'oine came, it was my father's job to fix things. Such is a diplomat's life. We didn't even see the end coming, but at least father saw fit to leave us all in the dark rather than just me." His tone went cold. "I ought to be honored that mother asked me to help her set the charges to explode our home. She and two of my sisters ran to the dryads in the hopes that they could seek shelter, and Aednat and Morna took me with them." He swallowed hard. "My father was beheaded. A quick death, at least, so one of the filthy dh'oine had some mercy."

Geralt wrapped his arms around Iorveth, tight and secure and warm. "You don't have to say more. I'm sorry," he mumbled against the elf's head, kissing his scalp. 

Iorveth became unused to sexual intimacy in the past few years, and affection such as the witcher showed now felt wholly alien. His heard felt as if it would explode, prompting Iorveth to push the witcher back under the pretense of standing to wander over to the other side of the baths, picking in the various soaps and oils. His hands were shaking. 

"You didn't tell me about the tattoo," Geralt tried, moving the conversation to safer waters. 

"It began as a copy of a mural. Legend says a dryad carved it with her own hands as a blessing upon our house. Our entire home was covered in trees, flowers, all sorts of things. My copy is far more complicated than the original now." 

The witcher waded over to him and nuzzled into his back, wrapping his arms around Iorveth's waist. "The wall still stands in Brokiloen. I remember thinking it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen." Geralt felt the self he'd lost agree. So he'd been an art lover before he'd lost his memory.

Another question popped into Geralt's mind as he processed Iorveth's story. He pulled away slightly. "Iorveth, how old are you?" 

A few breaths passed as Iorveth pondered this. "I lost count after the third century." He admitted. Geralt heard something change in his voice, an exhaustion creeping in. "I am old. I've had the time to kill more humans than you've eaten chickens. It was said my great-great-grandparents arrived on the White Ships."

Suddenly Cedric admitting he was old "for an elf" carried greater weight if he was Iorveth's younger cousin. Geralt held Iorveth tighter and rested his chin on Iorveth's shoulder. 

"So you're a cradle robber," he said mildly, trying to lighten the mood.

That got a snicker out of the elf. "I suppose so. Scandalous of me, fucking someone so much younger than I."

"A real spring-winter relationship we have here," Geralt agreed into the elf's soft skin, pressing kisses into his shoulder. 

A relationship. Was that what they had? 

Iorveth set down the bottle of oil he'd been fiddling with and relaxed into the witcher, electing not to think about it. Geralt's breath steadied him, and his whiskery kisses kept Iorveth in the moment. It felt good to talk. Only one other living person Iorveth shared no blood with knew so much about him, and there was no guarantee that the person was still alive. 

A part of Iorveth wanted to ask Geralt about Cedric's dying moments. He'd been attached to him, the last family he could regularly talk to about the old days, and now he was gone. The bath was so warm, so nice, and he didn't want to delve back into darkness just yet.

He allowed himself to be touched by Geralt, letting the witcher run his hands over his hips, chest, and legs. The witcher whispered in what broken Elder he could remember how beautiful he found Iorveth, how stunning his skin was under the witcher's fingers, how strong and incredible. 

"Shut up," Iorveth whispered, spinning around to cup the shorter man's face. The witcher was too sweet, and he could take no more. "I will stop your mouth." 

He kissed Geralt, and the world was once again a place of golden sun, green trees, and eternal joy.


	8. Dreaming and Doing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dreams are explored and Iorveth finally gets into Geralt's business, if you know what I mean.
> 
> The position Geralt ends up in is called The Anvil.

Iorveth felt a confusing swell of pride and attraction towards the witcher as he watched Geralt blackmail a city official of Vergen. The little dream Geralt sequestered in his pocket might not have been good enough for Phillipa, but it had its uses. Iorveth pondered dreams as he watched the witcher work. He knew he'd had a good one the night before, but couldn't recall it. In fairness, the entire night had been good. 

Iorveth and Geralt spent it in the inn, rolling around in bed in their underclothes like teenagers. Geralt hurt too much to do much more, and, although Iorveth would never admit to such bodily infirmity, he felt the same. They contented themselves in small sensations found in one another's bodies. Iorveth still tingled when he thought of Geralt's subtle fingers poised over Iorveth's chest, feeling his heartbeat as the elf lazily kissed his way over the witcher's face. An innocence permeated the evening. Iorveth could barely recall when he'd last spent an evening so, back in the shade of Brokiloen where the wild catkins grew. 

Ever prudent, Iorveth sent word to his men that he'd be spending much more time in the witcher's company. He did not reveal all, only that two heads were better than one when working towards saving their beloved Saskia. "It will be good practice for you, Gwireth," he'd said, clapping the younger elf on the shoulder. "I can't be in charge forever. You know my plans."

"Yes, sir," Gwireth swallowed, nervous. He was more than an adult, an elf well past fifty, but few could feel grown around Iorveth. They did not know how old he was, but the old elf's aura spoke volumes. "One can hope," the younger elf ventured, "That the time for those plans is soon coming?"

Iorveth squeezed his shoulder and released, turning to leave the little house that fast became something between a town hall and a war room for the elves. "One can hope for many things, my friend. One should always hope."

What Gwireth knew, what all the scoia'tael knew, was that Iorveth planned to step down as soon as destiny allowed. No one but Iorveth knew, what no one would suspect, was a space growing in his fantasies. Growing pains wrecked Iorveth's head as a hole formed, just the right size for one other person. He used to long for nothing more than a warm fire, more than enough food to fill his belly, a good pipe packed full, and some peace. Now he wanted more. Iorveth was hungry for the prospect of not just peace but a peace shared. He knew Geralt wasn't the person he could share it with. Witchers didn't have the luxury for concepts like hearth, home, and forever, Geralt especially. Iorveth had heard the songs and stories. The White Wolf wasn't just a witcher. He was one with a destiny. 

Still, Iorveth could enjoy the illusion while it was there. 

Iorveth and Geralt kitted up for the hike to the harpies' lair, both thankful they wouldn't be spending the entire night out in the stones with the horrific bird-women. The walk to Vergen's quarry took all of the morning and would have been less if the two men hadn't had to keep stopping to let Iorveth pluck harpies from the sky with his bow for Geralt to finish off. Geralt marveled at Iorveth's skill. Half the time, the harpies were dead before they hit the ground, and well within retrieval distance. Only one arrow was lost of the dozens fired, which must qualify as some small success.

No silence fell throughout their quest towards the Harpie's Nest. Questions passed back and forth with easy, inside jokes were seeded, and each of them started to feel a genuine self begin to peek through. Geralt didn't feel like he was missing several limbs that everyone else assumed he had, and Iorveth was re-discovering a self he had thought dead and buried. Iorveth told stories that held the witcher enraptured, Geralt talked about monsters and answered Iorveth's questions as best he could. Iorveth recited poetry from his youth and made Geralt laugh when he flubbed the words, Geralt told dirty jokes until Iorveth could not breathe. They bonded over surprising shared interests, discussing history, poetry, music, battles won and lost. Geralt delighted himself time and again with how much he seemed to know and could share. The hours spent in those chasms brought back more of Geralt's self than months wandering in Vizima the year before had. 

Some topics were tacitly taboo. They did not discuss their relationship, nor what they might become. Down that way, promises lay, and Iorveth could not abide promises just yet. Geralt desperately wanted to talk about them, but the elf was still an old fox who could turn and bolt at any moment. That was not a risk Geralt was willing to take, not today.

He was almost sad to see the heavy iron door barring the way between them and the harpy nest. 

"Ready?" Geralt asked, key poised at the door. 

"For fucks sake, I've been slaughtering harpies for the better part of two hours now. If I'm not ready now, I deserve to die." 

Geralt couldn't agree less, but he did relent and open the door.

  
  


Bleeding, exhausted, and frankly fed the fuck up with harpies, Iorveth and Geralt collected the last dream to plug into the blasted stone.

They'd found five dreams in total- silver, red, blue, green, and yellow. Each one had been bought dearly with sweat and blood. Every stone came with a flock of harpies poised to strike, more violent and bloodthirsty than any they'd seen before. They'd hardly had time to grab the damned things before throwing them in a bag before slaying the next one. It was arduous work. Finally, they'd made it to the heart of the maze, with only one last monster between them and a final dream.

An ancient stone loomed before them. The last harpy to die placed a dream in a crevice at the stone's center, summoning a magical cloud of some sort. The harpy flew in, and they went in after her. Geralt and Iorveth together made short work of the bird-woman and found themselves shocked to be watching what seemed to be a dream within the dark cloud.

They'd both been bitterly quiet as Letho's dream played out before them, discussing betrayal and his plans to destroy them. 

"We'll need to do something about him. Soon." Rage filled Geralt's heart as the misty dream dissipated. 

"Yes. Yes, we shall." Iorveth sounded tired again. He was getting sick of this kingslaying business. Did he not have enough to worry about on top of everything else? Iorveth righted himself and strode over to the sack of dreams, set to put the mood back to rights. 

"Let's see what spoils we've managed, shall we? Worry about what we ought to be worrying about." Iorveth squatted on his heels to pick up the crystalline stones. They were interesting, strange pieces of magic. One by one lay them out, rolling each one in his hands to observe the swirling oddities within. He went through methodically until he grabbed the one glowing a delicate blue. How Geralt had known what the Vergen Alderman's dream was, Iorveth did not know. He couldn't make out anything through the spirals and smoke, but something about this one made him freeze. 

Geralt looked over from where he was, examining the stone for any errant traps or magic, and saw the strange expression on Iorveth's face. The witcher was to him in an instant. "What is it? What's wrong?"

The elf could have said anything. He could have lied. He did not.

"I believe this dream is mine." His mouth was dry. Within the dream, he'd seen, not images, but familiarity. What dream was it? The Ravine of the Hydra, perhaps? The day his mother died? Iorveth did not dream these days, save for nightmares. Any pleasure he found in his own mind evaporated from memory with the dawn, and he'd rather not show the witcher what sorts of horrors he could concoct.

"How do you know?" 

Iorveth explained the sensation as best he could. Geralt said nothing and started looking into the other dreams intently, then set each back down again. Red, green, silver, purple… Iorveth saw a faraway look on Geralt's face as he gazed into the yellow dream. 

"How did _you_ know one of your dreams was in this bunch?" Iorveth queried.

"I didn't. Just had to check."

They sat there for a moment until curiosity finally got the best of the witcher. 

"I'll let you see mine if I can see yours." Geralt did not ask, but stated. He made the offer to be agreed to or refused, not negotiated.

"Are you sure?"

Geralt nodded once. In his most secret heart, Geralt wanted to see this dream more than he wanted to find Triss. The same part of Geralt that dreamt of consuming the Iorveth, digging himself into his soul and mind, demanded satisfaction. 

Intense, unblinking certainty practically radiated from the witcher's face. It sent Iorveth's stomach twisting, not at all unpleasantly. He recognized the look, for he felt the same need as well. It scared him a little. He stood up, cradling the dream under his arm. 

"Fine. It's your funeral. Let's do the rest first, though. Business before... I wouldn't call this "pleasure," but business before curiosity." 

Geralt agreed, gathering the crystals into his arms. One by one, the dreams played out as Geralt put them into place. They watched through a dwarf's nightmare, then a peasant's lustful dream about Lady Saskia that made them both laugh awkwardly. 

Next, the silver dream sparkled tantalizingly. Geralt placed it in the socket and was immediately struck with a wave of burning heat. The landscape swam around them, and eventually, the dream focused, and Geralt realized he recognized the contents. The dreamer swooped over the castle where King Foltest lost his life, and Geralt got his unearned reputation as a killer of kings. He considered the heat, the angle, the flight, and realized who must have dreamt this. 

"This is a dragon's dream," he mumbled. 

When it ended, he placed the dream carefully aside. "Can't think of any more power than a dragon's dream. If Phillipa isn't satisfied by that, I'll slap her."

Relief washed over Iorveth. Another ingredient found, another step closer to saving Saskia. The feeling dissipated quickly. "I suppose that means it's time for us to humiliate ourselves, does it not?" He hefted the blue dream in his hand and wondered if Geralt would cotton on should Iorveth pretend to trip and smash the dream to pieces.

Iorveth decided he'd rather be a man of his word than avoid humiliation. He passed the dream to Geralt and received the yellow one in return. Geralt offered to let Iorveth go first, but the elf would have none of it. "I'd rather you get this over with, then I can take my time with yours as you run away in disgust from whatever you see."

"Not gonna happen."

"We'll see."

Geralt made his way to the projecting stone. "Are you going to watch, too?"

"By stones, no. I had to dream the thing in the first place. What makes you think I want to see it again?"

Iorveth strode a good way off, and Geralt approached the stone, slipping the crystal into place.

Iorveth watched as the mist crept out from the crystal, encompassing the area around it and the witcher in a thick, dark fog. What dream would it be, he wondered? Maybe the one about the cave-in when endragas nearly killed him and his entire team? Would Geralt re-live the Ravine of the Hydra? Something older, the night he had to flee his home, never to see his family again? Nightmares all, but none secret. He could tolerate the witcher bearing witness to his pain.

Inside the dream Geralt saw a night sky came into view, dotted all over with stars. Under his feet grew soft grass covered in dew, and a cold breeze whipped through what Geralt assumed to be a summer night. He waited, watched as he saw Iorveth come into view. The elf was on his back, legs crossed, staring up at the sky. Geralt approached to get a better look. It surprised him to see Iorveth still missing his eye, but the scars on his face were less in this dream, and to see he wasn't in the mismatched gear so emblematic of the scoia'tael. Geralt had seen clothes like these worn by elves of high station, dyed green cotton trews, and a short-sleeved summer jacket all embroidered with copper and gold.

Melancholy settled over the witcher as he watched this dream-Iorveth laugh, pointing up at the stars to some companion Geralt could not yet make out. He'd give almost anything to hear Iorveth laugh like that, clear as a bell, his face so open with joy the corner of his eye crinkled. 

Geralt realized that Iorveth was talking to someone, making up stories about the constellations above them. The witcher leaned in to see who this might be, and his heart dropped into his boots when he recognized his own white hair, his own face relaxed and happy. 

"No, I really thought that one was the Whore of the Maldieves," Dream-Geralt rubbed his chin thoughtfully as Dream-Iorveth socked him playfully in the shoulder. 

"I expect a dh'oine to be so ignorant, but you don't recognize Meliete's sars on sight? She will strike you down the next time you come to her for care and healing." 

Dream-Geralt smiled, really smiled, with his entire face in a way Iorveth had only imagined. "If I offend the goddess and her people so much, you'll have to take care of me."

"I'll take care of you, alright, bloede Gwynbleidd." Dream-Iorveth shifted onto his elbow and rolled over. "I'll take care of you as long as you like." Geralt watched himself kiss Iorveth back, their lips meeting under a perfect, starry sky. 

Geralt let the dream play out to its end. It felt too sweet to belong to Iorveth, and yet he knew that it did. No-one else in Vergen was likely to dream the two of them engaged in such a naked and open display of joy. 

When the mists cleared, Geralt saw the elf straining to get a look at him, brows drawn together in concern. "Well? I didn't hear screaming, that's a good sign."

The dream version of Iorveth was so markedly different from the real one, Geralt thought to himself. The one he saw could be the older, more grizzled brother of the other. A man who had seen and been through too much, lost too much, to enjoy something so simple. 

"Wouldn't mind going stargazing sometime. You're full of surprises." 

Iorveth stiffened. What the witcher said started grating something loose in the back of his head. "What? You're correct, I am thus, but what was the dream?"

"Think about it. Think really hard. Fields. Stars." Geralt didn't want to explain. He'd blush if he could, but Geralt also found he needed Iorveth to remember.

Gradually Iorveth's memory came back, his face twisting into a grotesque snarl. "So it was a nightmare. I'm surprised you didn't run away screaming. I'm glad the harpies found it useful, that's all it's good for."

He'd had that dream just last night. No wonder he'd woken up in such a good mood. 

"It's a nice dream, Iorveth."

The elf turned his back on the witcher under the pretense of picking up the yellow crystal. He felt naked knowing Geralt had seen such a private want, and Iorveth hated having his secret wants exposed where he had to confront them. Where did this tenderness come from, he wondered, and how could he kill it. 

"And yet, still a dream. Don't get a full head, vatt'ghern, that could have been any pretty fool. A man gets tired of fighting and needs to dream of other things." 

A sting in his heart, Geralt allowed the topic to drop and stepped to the side, waiting for Iorveth to bring his stone forward. 

"No, no, after you," the elf said, dropping a mocking little bow and nodding to the spot Iorveth had just vacated. "You saw mine alone, it's only fair I do the same."

It was only fair, and although Geralt didn't like it, he walked away. He shouldn't have been nervous. Either Iorveth would see something he could handle, like a nightmare, or Geralt's subconscious would force a discussion for him, and conscious Geralt would be saved the trouble. He could see no downsides.

Iorveth the dream in the projector. A sickly, grey mist emanated from the crystal this time, thicker than smoke and nearly viscous, different from what any of the stones so far produced. Geralt almost ran forward, but he held himself steady as Iorveth was consumed by the dream.

"Flotsam. Surprising," Iorveth mused, looking around at the familiar trees taking shape around him. "Why would you dream about this? What could be so delicious to harpies here?"

He did not have to wait long to find out. 

Iorveth regretted his decision to watch this play out almost instantly. Cedric lay on the ground, breathing his last as Geralt held his hand, and Iorveth felt a swell of gratitude. His cousin had not died alone, had not seen that great beyond with no-one to comfort him. 

Iorveth came as close as he dared, shocked to see what Geralt's brain had made of his cousin. Cedric looked like some amalgamation of elf and tree, roots writhing around him as he lay dying. The hand Geralt held was not flesh, but vines, holding the witcher in place.

"Dramatic, witcher. Can't you dream only facts?"

Iorveth listened patiently to Cedric's dying words, paying particular attention when he saw his cousin's eyes glaze over. He recognized that look. Cedric had been blessed with foresight his whole life, and Iorveth sat through several such episodes as they grew up. He noted what his cousin said about Geralt's memories with particular interest. 

"Prophecies happen to you a lot, Gwynbleidd?" he muttered to himself. 

Intrigue turned to horror as he listened on, and at "Seov ar Minne" Iorveth froze. That was something from elvish fairy tales. One tale, in particular, came to mind. Lara Dorren and her human mate were rumored to have such a bond, which did not bode well. Theirs was a great and terrible love, and he'd remembered admiring the couple's tenacity to be together despite everything. Admired it until he pitied it upon the news that they had died. 

Iorveth hoped Geralt didn't understand Cedric's prophecy, as the witcher's grasp on the Elder Speech fluctuated in reliability from day to day. This was a grave thing Iorveth bore witness to. He bitterly wondered why whatever powers haunted his cousin saw fit to tell prophesy at the witcher rather than Iorveth. 

He finished out the dream, waiting stock-still as the mist dissipated.

"What did you see? How bad?" The witcher called out, shocking Iorveth back to reality.

The elf did his best to neutralize his expression with middling success. "It wasn't bad, per se."

So far, in Geralt's experience, that meant things were very, very bad. "What did you see?" he repeated, more urgently.

Responsibility rested heavy on Iorveth's head. Fate had raised her hideous head again, smashed Iorveth's face into her mess. They could solve this right here, right now. Iorveth could tell the witcher precisely what he thought that little snippet of prophecy meant!

And then what? They walk into the sunset, set aside all responsibility and care? Or the witcher could walk away in disgust, even drive a sword through Iorveth's belly, which Iorveth wouldn't have blamed him for. Geralt wanted Iorveth, and Iorveth Geralt, because of something neither of them could control.

What Iorveth saw in the dream tainted the last few weeks. Had any of it been real, been their choice? Geralt would never have chosen Iorveth voluntarily, this the elf knew. It was not fair that the witcher should be forced into something he wouldn't want. 

Guilt twisted in Iorveth's belly as he realized he wanted, very much, to let fate weave them together. Geralt's insistence that Iorveth was working some sort of magic hat not only understandable but technically correct, but it was a magic Iorveth could not control. Iorveth thanked the stars and the trees that Geralt hadn't had an aneurysm and died the moment they'd met. Dh'oine did that sometimes. They weren't built to handle things like Elvish eternity. Iorveth gnawed on his thumbnail. 

The silence drew out for too long. Iorveth needed to fill it.

"You dreamt about Cedric's death," he began, thinking on his feet. Maybe if he kept things quiet, Iorveth could fix this. There were old friends he could talk to, people who were more expert in the ways of magic and souls than he. He could enjoy the witcher for a while, then break off the Seov, and they could both be on their merry way.

"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to see him die, I wouldn't have asked if I'd known."

"It's not your fault."

They stood, watching each other for an uncomfortable amount of time. Geralt knew what Iorveth had seen and could not keep himself from asking about what Cedric said. "Any idea what that last part was about?" he ventured, lamely. 

Iorveth shook his head, too fast. "Couldn't make it out. The dream got strange at the end, vines everywhere." They both knew he was lying. 

Iorveth couldn't tell if Geralt was upset with him or not, his blank expression conveying nothing. It made him wonder if the witcher knew he was this hard to read, or if nobody had told him since waking up an amnesiac in the woods. 

"The stories say you get prophesied at frequently, what's one more?" he remarked flippantly. 

Geralt's shoulders slumped, and Iorveth immediately regretted his words, but his pride kept him from biting back an apology or explanation. What Geralt didn't know wouldn't hurt him, Iorveth reasoned. If it did hurt, then that was better in the long run. All the pain could build up, and once Iorveth fixed the bitch of a Seov, the witcher wouldn't feel too guilty about continuing on his path without Iorveth.

He nodded to the silvery crystal. "We've business with the sorceress, don't we? We'd best not keep the illustrious Phillipa Eilheart waiting, she'll have our skins for a new belt." 

It calmed Iorveth to see a small smile twitch on Geralt's lips.

"Go on ahead," Geralt cradled the blue dream in his hands like it was the most precious thing in the world. "I'll meet you at the door. Just give me a minute."

Iorveth hesitated but complied. 

"Don't be too long. I'm not a patient man."

The witcher waited, and waited, until Iorveth was out of earshot and approached the dream projector again. Geralt paused, considering, and decided he was owed something nice for once, damnit. Twice more he watched Iorveth's dream, and twice over was his want for this version of the future magnified.

  
  


They had no time to talk upon their return to Vergen as a lynch mob had broken out. Prince Stennis stood accused of murdering Saskia, acting a royal prick. Entitlement oozed from his pores, and Iorveth felt a deep and unabiding hatred for his kind well up in his chest even as he tried to calm the madding crowd. The sudden upheaval of Vergen distracted Iorveth from the awkward hike back to the city, unanswered questions hanging between them like rotting fruit on a vine. 

Geralt proved himself irreplaceable for the thousandth time in the short span Iorveth had known him. Even if they didn't like to, people listened to the witcher, likely because he was taller than most and known to be capable of great violence and yet, like men who were both feared and respected, did not threaten that violence very often.

Iorveth's scoia'tael kept the peace just long enough for the witcher to find evidence that Stennis might, possibly, maybe, not be the attempted murderer. Geralt impressed Iorveth still when the witcher managed to convince the angry crowd that this was the case. It also gave Iorveth enough time to see that his forces were not nearly enough to prevent an invasion of Vergen if they could barely keep the populace from killing a crowned prince, and he said as much.

"War is on the horizon. Before it reaches us, we need more people between Henselt and us." They stood, alone, in Vergen's castle, Iorveth speaking in hushed tones so only Geralt could hear. "We don't know when the Virgin will awake, and although I have faith in you, it's a future that needs planning for. I'll leave tomorrow." The great hall of the dwarven palace was littered with discarded peasant weaponry, and Iorveth could see in his mind's eye just how badly this could have gone without the witcher's intervention.

Geralt looked like Iorveth had just kicked his prized puppy. 

"Don't make that face. It's beneath you." Iorveth's heart strained in his chest. He could indulge for the time being, couldn't he? 

The elf looked around furtively, pushing the witcher into an alcove out of sight. Iorveth pressed against Geralt, arms on either side of his shoulders, effectively pinning the witcher to the spot. Geralt's hands found Iorveth's waist automatically, pulling them closer.

Iorveth ducked down to press a kiss to the witcher's mouth, hot and needy and full of teeth. Iorveth's convictions crumbled to dust against Geralt's lips, and this one indulgence became a craving. No one was here, a wickedness whispered in Iorveth's ear. He could take Geralt right here, right now, and none would be the wiser. 

Some propriety still dwelled within Iorveth, and he broke the kiss before he lost control entirely. He loomed over the witcher. "I'll be gone and back before you even know you need me," he panted. Geralt wedged his thigh between Iorveth's legs and ground it upwards into the elf's growing hardness, and the elf bit back a moan.

"Too late. Already need you," Geralt muttered, his voice had dipped lower, quieter, almost a growl. He nuzzled into the elf's neck. The opportunity to do more than grope had not arisen since that fortuitous and confusing night in the forest, the war left little time for pleasure. Still, the possibility of being away from Iorveth after nearly a week of being together almost every waking moment made his brain react as if someone was threatening to cut off one of Geralt's legs. 

Iorveth hissed, hands balling into fists against the stone wall as Geralt pressed into him again. He wanted to fuck the witcher until the man screamed his name and nothing else. He wanted to, but not here, not now. Iorveth pulled back, moving a hand to cup the witcher's chin. "There are things I must do, but if you wait for me in your rooms, I'll do my best to meet you there before I leave." He kissed Geralt again, tenderly. "I want to leave you a good memory."

Iorveth had left Geralt in the alcove aching and frustrated. 

Confusion wracked Geralt's brain, and he desperately wanted to talk to someone but found there was no one to talk to. He hadn't consulted Dandelion again, nor anyone else. He didn't want to hear how unnatural it was for him to grow so attached to Iorveth so quickly. The person he wanted to talk to, needed to talk to, wouldn't do it. Geralt had an idea of what Iorveth didn't want to talk about in his heart of hearts. The thought thrilled him, but the witcher was willing to put that discussion on hold. Uncertain futures do not make for good romantic conversations, especially when the uncertainty is prompted by an army of wraiths.

Geralt cursed himself, shutting his eyes and clinging to the cold stone wall. Iorveth's leaving left a cold place in the witcher's heart, his lips tingling from their kiss. He stood there until he trusted his legs to carry him back to the inn, sorrowful to not find Iorveth there as he had so many other evenings. They'd spent a good deal of time together in the witcher's chambers. Iorveth always insisted they go up separately, and Geralt hadn't questioned it aloud, though he'd felt a bit hurt. Geralt would have paraded them for all the world to see had he had the opportunity. Still, he couldn't pretend he wasn't excited at the prospect of having Iorveth's active attention for an evening before necessity drove them their separate ways.

To mitigate his screaming, whirling mind, Geralt decided to be proactive. He knew how men fucked, theoretically, and prepared as best he could. A quick bath refreshed him, and he snagged a bottle of oil on his way out. Dwarves, like elves, were not so prudish as humans in matters of sex, no so biased. Upon further investigation of the bottle, Geralt was surprised to find it bore very little to the base oils he used for his sword and armor. Once again, past Geralt had failed present Geralt, because he got the feeling he'd already known that. 

Once alone in his room, Geralt had to pause. The most likely scenario, he reasoned, would result in Iorveth inside the witcher rather than the other way around. How Geralt came to this conclusion, he was not sure, but it made him oddly bashful. Further following the strange line of logic, he decided it would only be polite to oil himself before Iorveth arrived. The witcher stripped and lay down on the bed, cautiously wetting one of his fingers with oil.

In theory, this should have been easy. The formula was there. Oil plus finger, multiplied by ass, equals loosening oneself for one's lover. It should have been easy, but the stress and anticipation got to Geralt so much he could hardly get a single finger inside himself. After nearly an hour of trying, fantasizing, and frustrating himself, Geralt flopped onto the bed and heaved a great sigh.

His ass was cold, it was getting late, and he was painfully hard. He stared up at the ceiling, focusing on the cool sheets beneath him and stones above in an attempt to calm himself down. 

He covered his eyes with his hands and pressed just hard enough to see stars in the darkness. It made him wonder if the dreams of Iorveth could become the future.

The witcher's window rattled once, then burst open before the witcher could process what was happening. Geralt moved like lightning, rolling off the bed. His sword was in his hand in a moment, and Geralt readied himself for a fight.

Iorveth ogled him through the opened window. He looked at the sword, then the witcher's still very erect cock, and grinned.

"I did expect you to get a sword out when I did this, I'll admit, but two? I'm flattered." 

Geralt let his blade clatter to the ground, exasperated. "You could've knocked! I'm pretty sure the euphemism is "giving him head," not "cutting off his head.""

Without further ado, Iorveth crawled into the room. "Quite right, and may I say, I look forward to the former." 

Geralt was surprised to see he wasn't in his scoia'tael green, just his bandanna and a loose leather jerkin, black tunic and trousers beneath. Geralt had seen Iorveth either naked or in full armor, and very little in between. He looked alien kitted out this way. The clothes didn't look new, either, which made Geralt wonder where he'd gotten them.

The witcher did not get to satisfy his curiosity.

Iorveth was to him in a few long steps, cradling the back of the witcher's neck and grabbing his shoulder to pull him into a kiss. Geralt responded immediately, running his fingers through Iorveth's hair. "It's so soft," he thought. Maybe one day, he'd get used to the sensation of the elf's body against his, but not today. 

"One day, I'm going to walk in on you naked, Iorveth, see how you like it," Geralt mumbled, sinking his teeth into Iorveth's lip and releasing slowly as he pulled backward. Iorveth groaned, digging his fingers into Geralt's flesh.

The witcher did his best to maneuver them bedward, untucking the elf's shirt and running his hand up Iorveth's hard stomach, fingers splayed out across scarred skin. He could feel the elf's pulse speed up, and his breath hitch, and Geralt smile as their mouths attacked each other. 

Having no luck getting Iorveth to undress himself, Geralt grabbed at the leather coat, pushing it onto the floor before moving to undo Iorveth's britches. Iorveth tolerated the coat and even let Geralt grind his palm against the elf's rapidly hardening cock, but it was here he made Geralt pause. 

"If I'm to fuck you, Gwynbleidd- and your current state of dress suggests that I will- we're doing it as I please." He caught Geralt's hand and brought it back up to his waist. 

Geralt growled quietly and moved to suckle at Iorveth's neck, leaving a large bruise in his wake. "I can accept that, but I won't sit back and do nothing." 

The elf released Geralt's wrists and moved to squeeze the witcher's ass. "I expect nothing less of you." Iorveth delivered a hard smack to the witcher's ass cheek, leaving an angry red mark and getting a yelp of surprise out of the witcher. 

Retaliation came when Geralt pushed forward, catching the back of Iorveth's legs on the bed and sending the elf backward and forcing him to throw one hand backward and grab Geralt with the other, pulling the witcher down on top of him. Nimbly Geralt landed, pinning and straddling Iorveth. He bit the elf again, harder, on the shoulder, a little lower this time. Iorveth's moans spurred the witcher on, and he moved lower, biting and lapping his way to Iorveth's nipple.

Teeth caught the sensitive nub, and Iorveth's hips bucked upwards into Geralt. The elf struggled and snarled, but did not make to push the witcher off nor tell him to stop. He dug his fingers into Geralt's flesh, dragged his nails, and snapped his teeth in the air like a mad fox in a trap.

Geralt figured that was an applicable comparison to make as he bit down a bit harder on Iorveth's nipple, running his tongue over it to create friction between his tongue, the shirt, and Iorveth's skin. Every time he bit, Iorveth bucked again, and Geralt shivered. Fabric trousers hid much less than leather, and he ground directly back down on Iorveth. 

The elf grew weary of the witcher's teasing. Sneakily Iorveth moved his leg to hook Geralt, then grabbed grab the witcher's free shoulder. He pushed with his hand, pulled with his leg, and allowed momentum to do most of the work, flipping them to put Iorveth on top. He grabbed Geralt's hips and dragged him forward, pressing kisses to the shocked witcher's jaw.

However, Geralt was not one to be one-upped and pushed right back, wrapping his legs around Iorveth's waist to regain the upper hand.

Back and forth they went, tumbling in the sheets. One man would kiss the other, then shove, the other would sneak a hand down to rub the other's cock and flip, then bite, then shove again. They rolled and wrestled, bodies tangling up in one another. Their snapping and snarling had a strangely playful tone to it, like young wolf cubs. Iorveth could not get enough of Geralt's nakedness in his hands, nor could Geralt imagine anything more decadent than Iorveth's agile muscles pinning him over and over. 

Eventually, foreplay must cease. Iorveth slid backward out of Geralt's grip and sank his fingers into the witcher's thighs, hooking Geralt's knees over the elf's shoulders and hoisting ass in the air. Geralt found himself with his shoulders pushed into the bed, face towards the ceiling, and cock in Iorveth's face. Before the witcher could say anything, the elf ran his tongue over Geralt's balls, suckled at the base of his cock, and moved back down to tease the tender spot between his genitals and his still-oiled hole. The witcher moaned quietly, stimulated and surprised in equal measure.

"How lovely, we were planning the same thing," Iorveth murmured, prodding the sensitive spot with his tongue again. "Admirable effort, but I think I can do a bit better." He freed his hands, one still pressing in on Geralt's thigh, the other snatching the oil Geralt had been using ineffectively earlier. 

Iorveth took the cork out with his teeth and dipped his fingers in the vial in a rather messy manner, letting dribbles of it run down his wrist. One of his fingers slipped against Geralt's tight hole while Iorveth turned his head to sink his teeth into the witcher's thigh.

A sense of pleasant surprise filled Iorveth when Geralt relaxed to let Iorveth's finger in when bitten. 

"Fuck," Geralt exclaimed. "Do that again," he demanded.

Geralt didn't know what to do with his hands, clawing at the bedsheets. He did not have the control he ought to, thrusting his hips against Iorveth's finger. Geralt felt wild and uncontrolled, and he liked it. 

The elf obliged Geralt's demands, biting again and sucking hard the thigh skin, pulling away with a pop as his finger sunk in further, agonizingly slowly. He sank in a second knuckle, then gradually a third, until he could push in no more. Once he was sure Geralt had acclimated, Iorveth carefully crooked his finger, searching for that magical bundle of nerves that might relax the witcher yet further. 

It didn't take long, and Geralt actually shouted in surprise when Iorveth found it. The sensation of a finger in his ass wasn't completely alien. Still, Iorveth's strong, slender hands elicited something entirely new from familiar gestures, calluses rubbing interesting places and coaxing out noises witchers probably weren't supposed to be able to make. Iorveth found a pattern quickly- he'd pull back, nearly removing his finger from Geralt's ass, dragging his finger over the witcher's prostate, then push back in suddenly to prod and massage the tender spot. 

When Geralt's thighs started to shake, Iorveth pulled his fingers away while Geralt whined in protest. He got the oil bottle again, wet his fingers, and gently applied a second digit. Geralt's hand flew to his cock then, he needed so badly to come it felt like torment.

Iorveth let the witcher touch himself, freeing one hand to undo his own trousers and do the same. He wanted stamina for later, and if you were Iorveth, a nice initial orgasm was a great way to buy that stamina. He wanted to know if Geralt was the same, or if the witcher might become more sensitive and tender, cumming on himself until he had no more seed to spend and came dry, trembling under Iorveth.

The thought of Geralt entirely powerless beneath him, broken with pleasure, made Iorveth's eyes roll back in his head as he gently started to scissor his fingers in the witcher's ass.

Geralt's vision was starting to swim with pleasure and want. Although his body gave in to Iorveth's ministrations, the witcher's mutant physiology let him hang on to his senses. He paid rapt attention to everything Iorveth did to him, effectively taking notes. He begged Iorveth for more, aching to feel the elf's weight on top of him, the press of his cock as he entered the witcher's body. He didn't even know what that would feel like, but he needed to find out.

Iorveth had brought the witcher near the cliff's edge of orgasm, and Geralt managed to keep from tumbling over until Iorveth started stretching him in earnest. "M'close, so close, don't you fucking dare stop you son of a bitch…" he garbled. 

"I'm sorry, are you enjoying yourself? Couldn't tell." Iorveth leaned up to run his tongue as far up Geralt's cock as he could, tracing the visible vein along the underside. "Couldn't tell the least little bit."

"F-fuck you, Iorveth, goddamnit…. Fuck ME." 

Iorveth shushed him. "Soon, soon, hold on just a bit," he murmured against Geralt's surprisingly soft inner thigh. He was whispering to himself now, eye screwing shut. As the final wave of pleasure rose to push them both over the edge, Iorveth's third finger entered Geralt, and the witcher's mouth opened in a silent scream as he came. 

The sticky spending oozed over Geralt's fingers, landing on his lower belly as he jerked and shuddered. He managed strangled little curses as he came down, hard cock still bobbing in the air. 

Iorveth watched the witcher's face intently, and as the other man's eyes rolled back with pleasure, Iorveth pushed himself over the same edge. A bit of the elf's cum landed on the back of Geralt's thighs and ass. Geralt discovered he loved it. He wanted to feel it again.

They both came shuddering to a halt, Iorveth slowing the pumping motion of his fingers but not taking them out. "You cum so nicely, Gwynbleidd." He shifted, allowing Geralt to lie flatter on the bed, moving himself out from under the witcher's legs. "Let's see if we can get you to do it again."

"Undressed," Geralt managed through short breaths. He shut his eyes and focused, calming his heartbeat down unnaturally quickly. Once he'd regained control, he tried again. "I want to see you fuck me naked. It's only fair." He smiled like the cat that ate the canary, but his expression melted as Iorveth plunged further inside of him, fingers to their hilt, massaging and pressing against that little bundle of nerves that broke Geralt's brain with each push and stroke.

"Ask, and you shall receive." Iorveth pulled his fingers away, wiping them on the bedsheet, and peeled his shirt up and off of his body. His long body stretched and twisted, allowing Geralt to admire the way the sinew and muscle of him moved. Geralt imagined Iorveth would be gorgeous bent over something, the witcher's cock hammering him, screaming and threatening and twitching. Maybe someday, when the unusual delight Geralt found in submitting washed away, he'd suggest it. 

Trousers never came off as gracefully as shirts, but Iorveth managed to make it look sexy, hooking his fingers under his waistband and pushing them down his thighs in one fluid motion. Like Geralt, he hadn't lost his hardness. 

Geralt starred unabashedly. "Another point in favor for me note being a dh'oine," he said, nodding to his own cock.

Iorveth smiled down at Geralt as he tossed his trousers to the floor. "Better cock and a better lay, you're almost as good as an elf." Instinctively Iorveth reached up to run his fingers through his hair and stopped when his hand hit cloth. He still wore the bandana belted to his head, and the witcher had made it clear last time that naked meant everything came off. In a split second, Iorveth decided that if Geralt hadn't run away from his eye by now, then he wouldn't, at least until Iorveth could fix the little seov problem.

He undid the little leather strap and flung it with the bandanna to the floor with a muffled "thunk." The witcher took him in, all in. The choppy black hair, the permanent scowl, the war-ravaged, and ink-covered body made the witcher ache all the more to feel Iorveth inside him.

Iorveth retook the little oil bottle and poured the last of its contents onto his hand and cock, oiling it well and reaching down to make sure Geralt was loose enough for him. "I'm going to enjoy this."

Iorveth removed his hand and crawled up Geralt until they faced one another, the elf pressing his body against the witcher's. His cock slid up and between Geralt's cheeks, just teasing the promise of entering. Geralt moaned in protest as it happened again, and again, a wicked friction Iorveth took too much delight in engaging in. "Do you want me, Gwynbleidd? Tell me. Ask me. _Beg_ me." 

He wanted to please. That is what Geralt did- he served, he pleased, he did what other people wanted. Now he was being told to admit what he did not want to tell anyone, and the prize for honesty was Iorveth. The witcher wrapped his arms around Iorveth, gripping his shoulders so hard there would be ten small bruises come the morning. Geralt caved, the wolf inside of Geralt reared its head, and they spoke together. "I want you do break me, Iorveth," he gnarled. "Fuck the rest of my brain out," he leaned up to whisper harshly in Iorveth's ear, running his tongue along it until he could nip the delicate point. Goosebumps erupted over Iorveth's skin as he listened, trying to burn each sweet word into his memory. "Make me yours. Mark me, so I'm unmistakable, mark me as Iorveth's." His breathing hitched. "Please. I want nothing so much as you."

Iorveth couldn't hold back any longer, shifting and pulling his hips back until his cock pushed against Geralt's entrance. He grabbed the witcher's face and forced him to stare into his eye again. "I want to see your face when I take you."

His hips pressed forward gently, lighting coursing down his spine as Geralt's body allowed him entrance so readily, so willingly. "You're mine," he hissed through his teeth. "Whoever else touches you, they'll know this is mine." He began to move back and forth slowly, easing himself a little further with every rock. Geralt pushed back against the elf, his head thrown back in devoted ecstasy. 

The pattern was usually so simple when Geralt had sex- A woman would ask Geralt for a roll in the hay, or he'd be so starved for affection he'd find a local brothel. Both parties agreed to an activity and a location, Geralt would find out what the other party liked, he'd do it for them until they finished. Usually, the witcher got to orgasm once or twice or five times in the process, depending on the lady's preference. He couldn't say it wasn't fun.

He wanted to see the genuine joy on the people's faces. This was one of the only services he wasn't accused of being greedy for performing; in fact, in sex, he could be as giving as he wanted and pay the other person. He cold over-pay! Geralt could not say no to money forever on his monster hunting jobs. He had to eat, had to bring money back to keep the School of the Wolf going. He had to let people know he was a Witcher, and witchers did not work for free.

With Iorveth, though, he felt none of the obligation. He felt wild, free, without the crushing need to please. It was as if Iorveth came before the things that made Geralt what he was, and for the first time, he felt both overjoyed and heart-stoppingly terrified.

He wanted more of it.

Sex never felt this good.

As Iorveth continued to push his way into the witcher, Geralt, as best he cold through broken words, started telling Iorveth these things. "You break me, Iorveth, fuck, fuck right there, more, please don't stop." 

It did not come across the way it did in his head, but every time Geralt spoke, Iorveth responded with his own animal need. "I'll fuck you so hard another amnesiac episode won't make me go away. You'll want me 'till the end of your days and after, I'll brand myself into you- AH." Hips met hips, and Iorveth suddenly found himself entirely, inextricably inside Geralt. He wanted to praise Geralt, but all that came out was- "I'm going to fuck you now" in a strangled drawl deeply tainted with the Aes Seidhe's accent. Geralt adored it.

"Do it."

Iorveth pulled back slowly as he could until only the head of his cock remained. The emptiness left behind filled Geralt with upset, but the slow, gentle pressure against his most sensitive spot kept him from complaining. Iorveth lingered for a moment before slamming home.

Geralt howled with pleasure, and Iorveth did it again, and again, and again. Each time he pulled back, he picked up speed, and soon their skin slapped together as Iorveth fucked the witcher in earnest. 

They tried to speak, but words blended into yelps and moans of want so quickly neither could make out what the other said. They communicated through other means, bit, kissed, and growled against each other, driving further towards frenzy. Iorveth pressed his mouth against Geralt's, forcing his tongue into the witcher's mouth in a strange echo of the pounding of Geralt's ass. Their tongues fought and twisted messily as Geralt found himself mounting towards another orgasm, so soon, and Iorveth felt the witcher tense and twitch around him. 

Iorveth broke off their wild kiss to look at the witcher's face again, shifting his weight to wrap his hand around Geralt's cock. "Cum around me. Do it. I want to feel you, and then I'll do it to you again, and again, fuck, fuck fuck…" Iorveth trailed off, too wrapped up in the moment to speak, as Geralt did exactly as he was told. The witcher's back arched beautifully as his eyes rolled back and shut, glistenings of sweat beading on his brow as he came again. The sensation was dangerously close to overwhelming, and he welcomed it. 

"Good boy," Iorveth purred. He gave the witcher a moment to recover, only a moment, before picking up at an even wilder speed. Geralt felt too good for the scoia'tael to stop for a moment. He needed to finish inside of the witcher, to make him his entirely. It didn't matter how many other people he'd slept with, or who would come next, only that Iorveth was here and he would always have been the one who was here, this night, with this man. 

Geralt was on fire, his senses narrowing down to his cock and his ass as Iorveth ploughed him. The elf released his cock to grip his hips, angling himself to push against Geralt's prostate with every thrust. Geralt took matters into his own hands and nearly screamed at the sensation of touching himself. It wouldn't take long for him to cum again, to cum for Iorveth. 

The elf was nearing his end point as well, his thrusts becoming more erratic and his nails sinking into Geralt's flesh. Beads of blood formed in tiny pinpricks on the witcher's skin, and he relished the pain and the pleasure. 

Iorveth was cursing him in the tongue of the Elder Elves. Geralt didn't care what was being said, only that his voice was nothing like he'd heard from elf or man. It was practically monstrous. When he came again, it started in his groin and blossomed out as a destructive flood, removing everything in its path, and Iorveth came with him. 

In fact, the elf did scream when he came inside the witcher for the first time, spittle flying from his mouth with the intense effort of it. He buried himself as deep as he could and held, spending all within the witcher's body with a last solid thrust. 

They held and shuddered together as long as they could, trying to preserve the moment, then collapsed onto the bed. Iorveth eventually pulled out of Geralt with great effort, and the witcher wrapped his arms around the elf again, cradling him against his chest. They lay there in the quiet, stinking of sex and of each other.

"I'll be gone in the morning." The merest hint of regret tinted Iorveth's voice.

"I know." Geralt could not hide the sorrow that came with those two little words.

Iorveth wanted to promise to come back to this again, but he could not promise that. He could not promise he would not die seeking out the other scoia'tael troops. His pride couldn't even let him promise they'd speak again if he came back, for what if the red-headed sorceress had returned? Iorveth would not make promises that could be broken by other people so easily.

Instead, they lay there, Iorveth listening to the witcher's heartbeat, Geralt running his fingers through Iorveth's damp black hair, bodies tangled together until they both fell into sleep.


	9. Warfare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have played the Witcher 2 can definitely skim this chapter. It is largely slight tweaks to the story and to Geralt's memory to set up some way-later-down-the-line plot. However, this was fun to write, so I hope it's enjoyable.

"Twice is a trend…" Geralt mumbled when he woke, sore, shaking, and alone. He'd hoped that Iorveth might've changed his mind in the night, but the elf had other things to do that weren't Geralt. The witcher rolled onto his back to assess the damage. Naturally, his ass was sore. Naturally, his legs ached. Geralt had never fancied himself a masochist but was nonetheless consumed with fascination by his pains. Both of his thighs had become a mess of bruises and bites, rapidly going mottled blue and purple. Anyone catching him in this state might be forgiven for thinking he'd been brutally attacked by a vampire with a particularly ravenous appetite. 

He dragged his fingers over his neck, wondering at the dull ache the elf had left in his wake, poking and prodding the places Iorveth had marked him. Much to his groggy surprise, Geralt found his cock stirring beneath the sheets as he re-lived the night in his memory. He presumed there would be no energy left to grow aroused, yet he was, surprised again. Geralt's eyes drifted shut. If he tried, he could pretend it was still dark, could feel the ghost of Iorveth's hands on his body. Concentrating, shutting out the world, Geralt traced the memory of last night with his fingers. He could almost feel the pressure of Iorveth's body on his, the elf's teeth on his shoulder, hear the elf growl in his ear. It hurt to be teased so, even by himself. Geralt allowed one hand to creep down his chest, then his stomach, scratching the fading welts Iorveth left until he paused just above his aching member. 

Did he dare? Geralt paused his fantasizing to crack an eye. Dawn had barely broken over the horizon, and no creature would be stirring. With that in mind, Geralt took himself in hand, rubbing his shaft up and down with firm, slow strokes. He whispered Iorveth's name as loud as he dared, wishing he could scream without risking discovery. In desperation to calm his sounds, in truth far quieter than he thought, Geralt sank his teeth into his free hand. Geralt let himself think of Iorveth as any normal man might think of a lover. The elf's scent, his sweat, still permeated the sheets. Geralt trembled on the brink of climax until he caught that heady mix of them both, tumbling over the edge. Stars blurred his vision as the witcher clumsily climaxed, spending over his shaking hand. His back arched, and he tasted the barest coppery hint of blood in his mouth as his teeth broke flesh. Wracked by orgasm, trembling in the cold morning air, he sighed aloud. "Damnit, Iorveth."

Much to his deep regret, he had to get up eventually. Geralt availed himself of a washbasin, almost sad to wash off the evidence of his coupling with Iorveth. Just as he decided he'd be more acceptable to society if he wasn't covered in cum, Dandelion burst into the room all in a tizzy. 

"Good morning, my friend." The witcher didn't turn his head, nor jump for his clothes. 

"Geralt, you are summoned by Phillipa, she says it's urgent- were you in a fight?" Dandelion squinted at his bruised, battered, naked friend. Nothing strange struck him about Geralt naked, nor injured, but Dandelion recognized these injuries. Horror dawned on him.

"... You didn't. Did you? You did!" The bard covered his face with shame. "That is knowledge I am better off without, you fucked the elf!"

"I haven't told you a fucking thing, drowner-for-brains." Geralt rolled out of bed, groping for his trousers. 

Dandelion made a disgusted sound. "You don't have to, I can see it written all over your…" he waved his hand in Geralt's general direction. "All over your YOU."

Geralt stood up and buckled himself into his pants, looking around for his undershirt and jacket. "Never took you for a prude. You're usually so open about sexual encounters."

"I am when it's not with a squirrel! Meliete's tits, just bring home a grave hag next time, she'd be safer."

Geralt didn't respond, but he did smile to himself. Dandelion's shock was oddly delightful. It made what happened a little more substantial and real. He wondered if that night together would quiet his want, if he'd be satisfied, or if he'd gotten so used to Iorveth's presence that he'd hurt all the more for his absence. His first thoughts this morning indicated they'd fanned the flames, not banked them.

Dandelion waited impatiently as the witcher dressed.

"If it speeds you up at all, the bitch sorceress found Triss."

Geralt froze in place and then did, indeed, speed up. He smacked the bard in the back of the head as he barrelled out the door. "Next time, open with that instead of gawping."

  
  


This had, perhaps, not been the wisest of Geralt's ideas. Phillipa had made it possible for him to traverse the battlefield of wraiths, going through the haunted mist. He'd met up with Roshe, which was a friendly if chilly encounter. Vernon clearly didn't know Iorveth and Geralt were in bed with one another literally and colloquially, or the witcher was sure he'd have run Geralt through the moment he came into view.

Geralt had found a strange statue on a corpse, snuck through murky tunnels and slain monsters to get into Henselt's war camp, and for what? To be captured by soldiers, disarmed, and brought before the pompous Nilfgaardian Ambassador Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen. 

"Geralt, I'd hoped we wouldn't meet again."

The witcher stared impassively. "Feeling's mutual."

The ambassador held a pleasant conversation as if the witcher was not handcuffed and held prisoner. "The last time we spoke, I heard you tell Foltest you were done with politicking, ready to return to killing monsters and saving damsels."

"I was. Things change."

Shilard nodded. "That they do. Loyalties, allegiances, these things can be so changeable. You and your sorceresses, for example. So willing to leave them at the wayside. I'd heard the redhead, what was her name? Ah, yes, Merigold. Triss Merigold, I'd heard she'd been hoping to see me and been… waylaid." 

"Kidnapped," said Geralt through gritted teeth.

"Kidnapped? Now I understand why you couldn't just stand by and do nothing. But there are other reasons, too, are there not?"

A tight-lipped smile crept over Shilard's mouth. "I've been told you were in league with the scoia'tael. With Iorveth himself! Is this true?"

Geralt made him wait for a nothing answer, grumbling "More or less." More was a far more accurate answer. 

"He has a taste for wolves," Shilard hemmed and hawed. "Interesting." 

"The fuck does that mean?"

Shilard did not reply, continuing his own line of thought as if Geralt had not spoken.

"Have you heard of the slaughter of Aen Seidhe, at the Ravine of the Hydra? The Kings of the North effectively forced the Empire to condemn and execute the war criminals of the Vreihedd Brigade. Iorveth was among those condemned."

The ambassador continued, but Geralt heard nothing, saw nothing, of the scene in front of him. A horrible sucking sound filled his ears as the waves of memory parted, and Geralt began to remember. 

It was September 23, 1268. Nearly two years ago. He was tracking the Wild Hunt in their mad chase through the sky and had witnessed them land, poking through the corpses at the bottom of the Ravine of the Hydra. One of them shouted orders, bodies brought out, and tossed them aside. Two were kept, hauled up onto the ridge. The stench of corpses was enough to make any human man gag. Fifty-three bodies. Fifty-one, he supposed, looking on as the two elves twitched with some life left in them.

The hunt's leader, a wraith in heavy armor with a helmet fashioned to look like a skull, investigated the bodies from his mount. One of the elves fished from the ravine was apparently still conscious and tried to grab the knight's leg. Geralt was too far away to hear what went on, but he appeared to be pleading for something on behalf of the other figure. Something stuck out of the unconscious elf's skull at an awkward angle. It looked like a spear and likely was jammed far enough in to have killed him twice over.

The hunt leader leaned down to wrench the spearhead from the other elf's eye and signaled to one of his men, guiding his midnight horse away from the bodies. The elf begging was swept up upon a horse, and the other was treated to some magic that Geralt could not identify.

Once the hunt left, he approached the body that should have been a corpse, a mangled beauty with half of his face split open.

The scene shifted suddenly, and Geralt was elsewhere in a village, Coldwater, November of 1268, comforting parents who had lost their ten-year-old son to the hunt the night before. They did not ask the witcher whether their son might be alive.

Another rapid shift to a mountain top, February 1269. Geralt ran at a Royal Griffon, one of the largest and rarest of the species. There was no joy in the hunt this time. He was desperate and cold and starving as the snow buffeted their heads, two beasts fighting for survival.

The final jump, May 1269, now he was pulling his horse up through a river, the Yaruga, as he followed the hunt south. The Wild Hunt had taken almost exclusively people between the ages of ten and twenty years old save two- Yennefer, and the elf. Geralt's brain returned to his body in time to hear Shilard finish whatever banal speech he'd prepared.

"-is amusing that the Scoia'tael believe the Emperor betrayed them. In fact, the kings of the North demanded the massacre at the Ravine. Do you feel well?" 

It impressed Geralt that the man managed to feign concern so well. 

Geralt grimaced. "I feel fine." So much returned to him, and yet so much missing. 

"I'm afraid you've taken up too much of my time. Thankfully, you have once again proved true that Triss Merigold always arrives in the nick of time. The figurine, take it off of him."

The witcher watched with growing rage as the figure he'd taken off of a corpse was summarily stolen from him and smashed. Inside a small, metal figure of Triss had lay the entire time. Before he had the chance to ask questions, the Ambassador turned his back on the witcher to leave.

"I'd prefer not to sentence to death a man previously pardoned by the Emperor himself. Unfortunately, I have no choice. Vandemar-" he turned to a mage who had been lurking in the tent's shadows, "- Once you're done with him, convey my congratulations to the sorceress Cynthia. Masquerading as Phillipa Eilhart's apprentice to lead her up the garden path was no small feat." He turned back to Geralt.

"Farewell, witcher."

Geralt was lead out behind the tents to a cliff overlooking a large body of water. It was a nice place to die, he thought, readying himself for the blade. He couldn't see a way out of this today… 

An arrow cut through the air and hit one of his guards in the side of the head, felling him. For a heartbeat, Geralt hoped to see an angry elf coming to his rescue, but it was only Roshe. The mage Vandemar tried to dispose of the witcher, but Geralt was suddenly being freed and handed a sword just in time to drive it through Vandemar's heart. It hadn't felt terribly good. His head was swimming with renewing memories throwing him off guard. 

"Gods, man, cutting it a little close, aren't you?" Roshe clapped the witcher on the back, a friendly gesture Geralt was in no mood to reciprocate. He explained exactly what had happened, his suspicions that Triss had been metamorphosed into a statue and taken out from under his nose for the second time, and his desperate need for royal blood to continue his search for a cure to the Virgin of Vergen's ailment.

"... I'll help you. If you swear you'll spare Henselt, just take what you need and go, or I vow on my mother's bones, I'll skin you alive." 

Geralt agreed. It hadn't been easy to sneak through the camp, and pressing his blade to the King's throat felt too natural. How easy would it be to become a Kingslayer? How pleased it would make Iorveth to hear the witcher tell of beheading the man who was making life so difficult for the people of Vergen. Still, his promise to Roshe would not let him remove the king's head from his miserable body, and so he settled for a full vial of blood to take back to Phillipa. 

The rest of the evening passed without incident, provided "killing lots and lots of people" did not count as an incident. Geralt was aware he had been created to serve humanity and protect it from monsters, but some days he couldn't help but enjoy a bit of bloodshed.

He felt a swell of pride once he returned to Vergen as he watched Phillipa revive the fallen Virgin Dragonslayer, and could only wish that Iorveth could have been with him.

Geralt kept wishing Iorveth had been there as the adventures continued. The old elf might have been able to help him negotiate with the wraith in the crypts below Vergen, sparing Geralt the pain and nerves of trying to recall wars he himself had not lived through, relying on the storytelling abilities of drunk dwarves. He could have snarked with Geralt as Phillipa paraded high and mighty, trying to hide the pain she felt at being betrayed by the woman who'd shared her bed. Cynthia, the Apprentice, had betrayed them all, working for Nilfgaard to destabilize Vergen and poison the people by sowing dissent. 

Iorveth could have rested in his arms and calmed him the night before Geralt was to march into a suicide attempt, trying to dispel the largest curse Geralt had ever confronted. That was another problem, too. Geralt could now  _ recall. _ Each memory felt like pulling teeth, the metaphorical sea of his mind turning into a wild and choppy cliff upon which Geralt battered over and over. Once he started to remember, Geralt had hoped to have some sort of memories of these feelings he was having for Iorveth. From what Dandelion told him, he should currently have two conflicting pulls, one towards his elf and the other towards the sorceress Yennefer. Still, as Geralt replayed those days tracking the Wild Hunt, most of what he could remember was a sense of obligation. He needed to find her because he needed to, simple as that. She didn't light him on fire with craving the way Iorveth had, and truth be told, that frightened him.

Day dawned bright and cold as Geralt followed Phillipa out to the battlefield. He was ready for the trials ahead, even if he didn't particularly want to be.

He presented the magic items: First, a symbol of hatred. What better emblem than a flag under which the wraiths needlessly died? Second, a symbol of death represented in the Dragonslayer's sword opened the way for Geralt to step back into history. As Geralt parted the mists and marched on, Cedric's words echoed in his ear. "Save their souls, and your memory will return, White Wolf." 

The Path wasn't clear, but he'd be damned if he wasn't walking it.

Damned like the souls wailing around him.

Talismans of war guided Geralt onward. Draped in a survivor's cape, carrying the standard of a regiment destroyed almost entirely, and hefting the sword of a king too cruel to continue ruling, he walked onto the field as a cursebreaker. Beyond the realm of witchering, of butchery for pay, Geralt knew in this was what he did best. 

The moment his feet hit the cursed dirt, the spell rippled, and Geralt left his body. Three times Geralt went as a ghost, possessing soldiers long dead, and three times he saw through the eyes of a man who ought not to have died. He walked in the shoes of a specter just trying to survive and go home. He walked as the bearer of the very standard Geralt carried, a rain of magical fire to do his duty. Finally, he saw the world through the eyes of a soldier, a commander, and a leader. 

Geralt had forgotten how hard it was to convince a ghost to act against their memories. He'd insisted to the final wraith that trying to fight his last battle for the who-knew-how-many'th time would do nothing, would end in nothing. It was not until Geralt invoked the soldiers under the wraiths command that he stood down. 

"If you fight him, this will start all over again, and your men will die again, and again, and again, until the end of time. They will never go to their rest- It doesn't matter how much you crave glory."

It was a gamble. Geralt waited patiently, poised to fight should he need to. Most wraiths didn't know they were dead and could react violently to the revelation, but the risk couldn't be avoided.

The specter looked down and pondered, slowly vanishing in the wind. Geralt could hear the sound of war coming closer, the avatar of this hellish battle coming to fight a man who was not there. 

"I do this solely for my men." The dead man met Geralt's eyes. "Do not fail us, witcher."

Geralt nodded a silent promise and went off to win a war that had been over for years.

When Geralt saw the Drauger, a monster made of rage and abandoned war machines, he did not believe he would survive. The fight ran long, the witcher battered and bruised. He would have tided four times over were it not for his potions, and even they could not prevent the Drauger from landing blow after massive blow. As his blade finally sank into the creature's metal and wooden belly, the beast bellowed, light radiating out to break through the mist. Geralt had barely a second to marvel at his victory before his eyes rolled back and his body seized. Overhead the bloody sky cleared, and more memories returned to the witcher, lying prone. 

It was spring, 1269, in the Forests of Angern. He saw himself helping the witcher Letho survive the normally deadly sting of a slyzard's tail. He remembered the two of them bonding and befriending one another over their shared vocation. They'd drunk together over bonfires, hunted quarry, and Geralt told the man his tale of woe.

Winter Solstice of 1269, the night of magic, he and Letho and the other witchers of the Viper school had gone to the hang man's tree deep in the swamp to interrupt the revelry of the Wild Hunt. Specters couldn't bleed, and you could not slaughter ghosts, but Geralt remembered how solid the warriors of the Hunt had been as his sword cut through them, their blood red and warm splattering the witcher's face. Geralt and his shaggy crew were outnumbered, but he had felt a tremendous and unshaking pride at the pile of corpses they'd amassed.

Geralt didn't want anyone else to die today for him, and he'd traded himself for Yennefer. He had ridden with the Hunt. And somehow, he had gotten away. Somehow Ciri- his Ciri, the daughter who was not his and yet was all his own, his little witcheress with her ashen hair had saved him.

More memories came to him in the dark. Training at Kaer Morhen as a boy. Killing a dear friend when the School of the Wolf had been betrayed by the School of the Cat. His first time out of the keep as a witcher, killing his first monster- a man he'd found trying to rape a young woman, not 50 miles outside of the keep.

He remembered Blaviken and the slaughter that had netted him the byname, Butcher.

All of it came to him at once, a flood of memories that should have caused a bleeding brain in normal men. For Geralt, though, the witcher who had done the Trials of witchers, and then more for good measure, it was no death sentence. 

When he awoke, dizzy and confused, he was no longer on the battlefield but lying in Phillipa's bedroom. 

"Not the afterlife I expected, but I'll take it."

"In your wildest dreams, I would not allow that to happen, witcher. You're only here because no-one else in this backwater knows how to deal with you." Phillipa puttered around somewhere out of sight. "You're unlikely to meet me in the great beyond, and you're too valuable to die. You did the impossible."

Geralt sat up slowly, his head heavy. "I don't remember coming here."

She sniffed. "Because you didn't. I brought you here- and don't ask how. We sorceresses have our ways."

Phillipa interrogated Geralt, and he answered her as best he could before being summoned away once again from the prospect of rest. The Virgin, Saskia, was readying her troops for the onslaught of King Henselt and his invading force, and Geralt was to fight at her side. Geralt had somehow managed to, twice in a year, get tangled up in the wars of monarchs. He worried it might become a habit.

When he stepped out of Phillipa's home, the familiar scent of war filled his nostrils. He knew the content of the enemy's bombs by smell, the composition of their fires- wood and the corpses of the fallen. Crashing steel in the distance made his limbs tingle with the anticipation for the ensuing skirmish. This was another one of those moments, he thought. This was another Blavikin, another Ellander or Rivia, wherein fate and destiny dictated that he had a place in history, and he had better take it. 

Witcher's were not built to be folk-heroes. He wasn't created with the capacity to be the conquering hero, to be happy with flowers being thrown at him as a victory march played through the streets. He was built to do the job, whatever job, and sneak out the back door once the work was done. Glory did not know him, and these thoughts quickened his step through the streets of Vergen. He moved differently, instinct and experience making him curl in on himself, a wolf preparing to strike as he ghosted past civilian stragglers moving towards the deep caves and safety. 

Affection towards each person he passed mounted, bit by bit. He existed to help. He  _ was _ because the world had decided someone had to keep the weak, the sad, the too young and too old, protected against the horrors a world full of monsters could provide. 

Clouds crept over the sky with a dread purpose, and the stink of rain joined in the fray of smells and sensations. Summer heat mingled with the oncoming storm. Geralt hadn't seen proper summer in such a long time.

When the witcher arrived at the front lines, Zoltan met Geralt with a steely resolve. 

"I know that look. Ye finally back with us, lad? Prepared to give these bastards a good, neighborly thrashing?"

By way of answer, Geralt drew his sword and spun it around his fingers, letting it glint and catch the sun's last rays before it was consumed by darkness. 

The first wave of soldiers went quickly. Geralt's sword met flesh time and time again, his reflexes lightning made flesh. Instinct was all well and good, but little made up for decades of practical experience. Monsters make for challenging work. Vampires were hard, sirens were hard, a swarm of endraga or nekkers were hard. Men? Men were simple and breakable. That was part of the problem, he thought as he sank his blade into another belly, protecting Zoltan as the dwarf dumped boiling oil onto the soldiers below. Geralt cast his Igni sign and sent all those covered up in a ball of flame as the troops retreated further into the walled dwarven city. 

He, Saskia, and Zoltan found themselves stationed atop a set of buildings, watching the second set of gates to the inner walls of Vergen. They were outnumbered at least seven to one, and the fight was gruelly. Geralt busied himself with beheading as many people as he could when heads popped over siege ladders, using his signs to fire blasts of air or rumble the walls just so, preventing the invaders from finding purchase and forcing them to fall backward over the wall. Wave after wave came, and Geralt fought like a beast.

Fighting felt all the more natural now he had himself back, his swords not just tools but extensions of his body. A certain grace had been restored to the witcher and, were circumstances not what they were, he would have reveled in it.

Hours passed in this way, back and forth, parrying arrows and spears while fulfilling men's wish to die this day. Morning gave way to midday, and midday crawled battered and broken into the afternoon. Rain hammered all troops creating a battlefield of blood and mud, all dark, staining everything it touched. The soldiers of Vergen, in no small part thanks to the witcher, had made a respectable dent in the enemy forces. Unfortunately, they had done the same. The weather went out of their favor, and both the troops of Henselt and Vergen had to regroup and re-plan.

The Virgin of Vergen caught Geralt's eye in the ensuing quiet. 

"I sent a small team into the underground paths that lead out of Vergen, to scout for me. They have not yet returned, and I fear the worst."

The witcher opened his mouth to volunteer solo for this mission, but before he could, she continued that the witcher AND SHE would be making a trek. "We have an hour, maybe less. Come, and hurry."

Geralt obliged. A paternal stirring came into his heart. She reminded him so much of Ciri, a lone girl taking on the world to make it something she wished it could be. He admired that. They discussed battle plans as she lead him down winding roads he had never even seen, dwarven paths carved out for just such sieges as they were experiencing. 

They found Saskia's men in the mines.

Every Jack's son of them had been killed, brutally, sliced with hateful cuts that the witcher recognized from the battlefield above.

They heard voices coming towards them, and both the witcher and the Virgin prepared for a fight.

A small battalion, still too large for them to safely take on together, marched towards Vergen, intent on invading from the inside. It was just as Saskia had feared. Geralt dashed out of the darkness, opening the nearest soldier from gut to throat.

It was a good fight. Quick, clean, and likely would have been simple had the mage not caught Geralt in a blast of fire at the last moment. The witcher collapsed onto the earth and saw three knights advancing upon Saskia. He tried in vain to get to his feet, but there was no need.

In a flash of blinding light, the Dragonslayer of Vergen began to change. Limbs extended, hands turned into wicked talons, and from her back, sprouted two massive wings. She filled the cavern and more, and Geralt barely processed her change in shape in time to roll out of the way of the blast of fire she let loose from her mouth. Henselt's men had no chance, burned to a crisp in a matter of moments. 

Saskia shifted back to the same young girl Geralt had come to recognize over the past month of trying to cure her and ran to him. She hooked her hands under his armpits, propping Geralt against a wall.

"I expect you will be having questions," she started, words laced with caution. She tried to sound stalwart, but Geralt could hear fear trembling behind the wall she kept up so bravely. His heart twinged again, and he wanted to gather her up and tell her she would be fine. 

"I do. But they can wait."

She shook her head. "The potions of witchers work quickly, but not so quickly as that. We have a little time."

He sighed. "If you insist. So, a dragon?"

She smiled a little. "Yes, a dragon. Both my father and mother, although I take after her more than him."

The witcher shifted to a more comfortable position against the stone. "How so?"

Saskia sat back, armor clanking. "Did you never wonder why I wear gold armor? It is in his memory. He shone like the sun."

A golden dragon sired Saskia. Something tickled the back of Geralt's brain, but when he tried to grasp the thought, it swam away again. "Why wear this shape?"

Her nose wrinkled, annoyed. "I shall presume you are asking a more tactful question that it sounds. Many would follow a dragon into battle, yes, but many more would come for my hide?" Her fingers curled into tight little fists against her knees. "Do you know how difficult it is to exist in a world intolerant of that which is different and strange?"

He caught her eye, and Saskia was struck to see something akin to fatherly concern within them. "I know."

She softened, relaxing her hands. "I am aware. Forgive me, that was unkind. This battle puts me on edge, as does the future of Vergen. Keeping who I am secret only adds to the stress."

"Who knows? About this." He was starting to feel up to walking, rising slowly to his feet. They continued to talk as they walked back to the battlefield. 

"Not many. You, now, and Phillipa. Iorveth knows as well. It's very hard to keep things from that elf. He's the one who came up with the Dragonslayer story. It's all a very fantastical, romantic idea, is it not?"

He had to agree. "Not sure I can picture him pitching that. He seems more like the "stage the kidnapping of someone important and have you rescue them" type of person than the fairytale-spinning kind." 

Saskia blinked at him in surprise. "Just as you are not known to be the sort of man to say more than five or six words at a time, and yet you have proved that wrong."

"Got a point. Suppose I'll have more to talk about the better my memory gets."

One last thing nagged at the back of the witcher's mind. "How has my medallion not been vibrating non-stop this entire time? You use magic to hide yourself. I should be that I have a friction rash from all that magical residue."

This gave Saskia pause. When she finally replied, it was with much hesitation. "My father taught me that some magics, old magics, do not feel the same way modern enchantments often do. Promises, for instance. Or love. Some elven magic as well may be so old in practice it cannot be noticed by your medallions." She gave him a long, hard look. "Later, when the battle's won, we may speak on it more. There are things I cannot say now that I believe may be of need to you."

That dropped the conversation, and they continued on to the surface.

It seemed Heinrik's forces had rested and replenished quickly, while Vergen's had not. With every drop of rain, morale grew lower. While Saskia's rousing speeches managed to get the men back to something like fighting-fit shape, Geralt felt the looming shadow of failure glowering over his shoulder, a beast he could not face and win, as the final, largest wave of soldiers came at them.

"It's been an honor fighting with you, Saskia," he said, earnestly, as he witnessed his death swell before him.

Geralt had fixed his eye on the man he planned to kill first, gripping his sword's pommel for dear life. He readied himself, poised to spring, and had to stop. The soldier he'd been focusing on froze, an arrow lodged in his right eye, and fell to the ground. A wave of unease swept over the enemy as another soldier fell, then another, bodies falling arrows hailed from the sky. Geralt spun and saw, in the light of the setting sun, Iorveth commanding soldiers as the elf-kings of old had done against the first humans to take their land. 

Since yesterday, so short a time ago, life had moved so quickly that Geralt hadn't processed everything that had happened in the past two months. He'd assumed, perhaps hoped even, that upon seeing the elf, it would all be revealed that his feelings were naught but the flirtations of a new mind seeking something in the dark. That what he had felt gnawing inside of him would shrivel up and die upon seeing Iorveth. He wanted some kind of change to the current situation.

Change is what he got. 

Geralt's heart flew into the back of his throat, and the heavens opened upon him. He might've been seeing the elf for the first time all over again, technically the third "first meeting" they had had. Their eyes met at this distance, and Geralt saw Iorveth smile just a bit before drawing his bow and firing. The arrow whizzed past the witcher's ear, barely a hair's breadth from skin, and found its home between the eyes of a soldier approaching the witcher from behind. 

Hope regained her crown that day, and she had come with the support of the scoia'tael. 

Saskia ordered Geralt to close the gate, to help Iorveth trap the enemy king within the city's walls and end this finally. She did not have to tell Geralt twice, and Zoltan struggled to keep up. Geralt, fast and light on his feet, felt as if hisinterruptt once touch the ground as he ran. 

He stopped short, just in an alcove away from the archers. Iorveth turned to look Geralt in the eye and smirked wickedly. "Admit it- You thought I wouldn't come back, Gwynbleidd-"

Geralt's bulk suddenly launched at Iorveth, knocking the wind out of him as the witcher wrapped his arms around the elf, squeezing him for dear life. If the archers cared, they did not make it known. 

" _ Mo Ghille Mar _ , did you miss me that much?" Iorveth whispered.

They stood there together as both men's hearts hammered in their chests. Geralt buried his face in Iorveth's shoulder, breathing in the elf's scent- Verbena, roses, and leather. Iorveth managed to struggle his hands free, embracing Geralt right back. They slotted into each other as if they had been made thus. To Iorveth's question, Geralt managed a strangled  _ yes.  _

"I hate to interrupted a nice moment, but we've got a fucking war to deal with." Zoltan barked from behind them. They clung to each other for a moment more before pulling away.

"You're hellishly good, Iorveth. Never seen archers better than yours in my life."

Iorveth nearly made an amnesiac joke but Geralt barrelled over him. "We need to stop Henselt from retreating-"

"-and then force him to try it." Iorveth finished the witcher's thought for him.

From somewhere around Geralt's ribcage, Zoltan chimed in "And there's no time to waste with tearful hello's. To the gate!"

As they ran to the great lever to shut the gates, Geralt murmured to Iorveth. "You're going to have to tell me where you've been later."

Iorveth smiled. "Once we're certain we won't be murdered by dh'oine, I'll be sure to do so."

The heroes of Vergen rushed to save the day, Geralt swelling with pride. He was Iorveth's  _ ghile mear _ , his gallant hero.


	10. A Matter of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see what Iorveth got up to while Geralt prepared for battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! School ate all of my time, but I hope y'all enjoy it <3

Leaving Geralt that morning was excruciating. Iorveth was utterly silent and almost amazed at himself for getting out from under the witcher's arms without waking him up. He dressed quickly, making it back to the Vergen's Elf Quarter just before the sun stretched her arms out over the city. His commandos lurked at Vergen's borders, already divided into their search parties.

Iorveth wasted no time delivering his orders, and the courtesy was repaid in kind. Pride They set out in one unit, groups peeling off as they came to splits in the chasm to take their separate paths. Iorveth's group was the smallest, just two archers and two of Iorveth's trainees. They were a motley-looking group. Only Iorveth still wore his forest gear, and the rest had pieced and picked up armor from various unsavory individuals they'd killed while defending Vergen from the shadows. 

The trek was long and arduous. Iorveth and his team slept little, following signs and clues left that only nonhumans in their cause knew to look for. 

It had been no easy feat to get these people to camp here in the first place. Iorveth had already pissed off every leader of every commando force just by being his ostentatious, murderous self. He did not lie low well, and his reputation for eradicating special forces units had not made other squirrels much safer. He escalated from a distance.

Still, the promise of a homeland will make people set aside so many grudges.

At least that's what Iorveth assumed until he found himself looking down the business end of a blade. 

"Explain yourself, one-eye." The speaker was young. Iorveth could still see that bright, burning hope in the elf's eye. He couldn't spot a single scar anywhere on her exposed arms either, which could mean they were an incredible fighter, but Iorveth would bet she was just green. 

He was tempted to test this theory, but where there was one squirrel visible, he knew there were typically at least a few others actively taking aim. 

Iorveth glowered at his theoretical captor. "What needs explaining? War dawns again in Vergen. What, do the scoia'tael no longer thirst for the blood of dh'oine?" He cocked his head. "Are you so divorced from our cause now? Pity."

The other elf drew her lips back in a snarl, but let her weapon drop. "My Lady has already given us her orders. You are to go to her alone. Your men will come with me." 

Iorveth was not a fan of being ordered about in this fashion, but knowing the Lady this elf spoke of, he wasn't exactly shocked. "What is it she wants of me?"

She shrugged. "You will have to ask my Lady. I have my instructions, and now, you have yours." She pointed her blade. "That way. Go straight. You'll find our encampment."

Iorveth nodded to his men and set out. At the sword-wielding elf's signal, at least seven archers dropped from the trees around them and began greeting several of his men like old friends, likely because they were. War veterans abound in the ranks of the squirrels; friends forged in iron and blood. 

It took just twenty minutes before he came to a cave, entrance draped with cloth. It was battered and old, but made of finely embroidered material. White and purple lilies grew and bloomed around the image of an elven woman who Iorveth could not place. He'd asked enough times who it was, but the tapestry's owner had never given a straight answer. Roughly stitched into one corner, he could see a scrap of fabric, one very familiar—a black flag with white lightning bolts.

He did not announce himself as he entered the cave. It was just large enough within that he couldn't quite make out a figure sitting on the opposite end, even with the fire going on in the middle. Smoke billowed out a natural chimney in the top of the cave.

"One more move, and this arrow will go in your belly, one-eye," a familiar voice snarled. 

"Did you truly summon me to you just to get an easy shot in? I thought better of you." 

The figure stretched, long legs bare to the knee, pulling an angry she-elf into a kneeling position. "And if I did? What is nobility amongst such as we?"

Iorveth grinned. "A waste of fucking time."

Toruviel, with a deceptively innocent expression ever-present on her forever youthful face, rose to her feet to advance upon Iorveth. They gripped one another's wrists and clapped one another's backs in friendly comradery.

"You're supposed to be dead, Iorweth." Her pronunciation of his name softened the V. 

He shrugged. "So are we all. As far as Nilfgaard is concerned, all Vrihedd officers are supposed to be rotting at the bottom of a ravine, and yet here you are, and here I am." He gestured to himself. "Ghostly monuments to the Empire's betrayals." 

Toruviel laughed, tossing her head and howling like a wolf. "Ever the poet, one-eye. Surprised no-one ever cut that tongue out of your face for a trophy. It's the only pretty part of you left."

He snarled at her, and she proferred him a flask of something. He took it, polite, but gave it a suspicious sniff. Whatever the witcher had given him was more potent than this, and so he risked it.

"You know why I'm here. We must mobilize, move out." 

Toruviel nodded and sat by the fire, legs crossed. It being the height of summer, the cave was sweltering, but she seemed to feel the heat not at all. Iorveth refused to remove his layers on principle. There were few elves he was truly afraid of being physically vulnerable around, and Toruviel nearly made that list. 

He saw a hitch in her hip as she sat down, a barely suppressed wince furrow her brow. 

"Injured?" Iorveth squatted near her, just out of comfortable stabbing range. Toruviel nodded, rubbing her leg. 

"Wish I could tell you some tale of woe, but unfortunately it was my own stupid luck that did me in this time. We were on patrol, and I stepped in an old mage's trap. I think it was one of ours, as well, which makes it the worse. Nearly blew my leg off. It's still got a good deal of shrapnel in it as well. Cold makes it ache all the more. My shoulder's in a similar state, and I only aggravated them in Lakeside."

Iorveth nodded silently.

"Unfortunately, that means we'll not be moving anywhere until morning. I'm not the only one injured, and I'll not leave my men behind to die here."

She'd always been devoted to her underlings and ruthlessly cruel to everyone else. 

"Understood. Vergen is in good hands at any rate."

Toruviel nodded. "I can say I am genuinely surprised you were coming? I'd given my men the order to send you here to make sure you weren't a ghost. Also, can't see you leaving the side of the famed Virgin of Vergen." She was teasing him, teeth glinting as she leered his direction. 

"They don't need me at the moment. We've retained the services of a witcher, and he's come at an extremely reasonable price. You might know his name." Iorveth paused, feigning ignorance. "What was it…. Jareth, Gregory… Ah! Yes, Geralt."

She leveled him with a look of disbelief. "Really? He moves fast. I saw him in Murky Waters- this is the one with memory problems, isn't it?"

"The very same." He took the flask from her again as she shook her head. 

"How do you find yourself in these predicaments, Iorweth? Besides, if the stories are anything to go by, Vergen will be aflame by the time we arrive. He's not exactly known for his political savvy, is he?"

"I don't doubt the witcher at Vergen will have everyone's problems neatly solved by the time we return, with me arriving barely in the nick of time." Sarcasm dripped from his lips. That was how every interaction with Geralt felt, but he had to admit internally that it was strangely comforting that Geralt seemed to manage to save the day. It wasn't always perfect, and sometimes he failed, but there was a reliable consistency to the man that Iorveth could appreciate.

They sat in silence for a while longer. 

"Is it too much to hope your survival means  _ he _ lived, as well?"

Iorveth's heart made to choke his mouth. "Far too much. As far as I'm aware, no one else had a miraculous recovery." He reached up, ghosting his fingers over the marred spot on his face where the spear drove home.

Toruviel turned her head and spat into the fire. "I've been asking around, Iorweth. Believing you weren't dead without tangible proof was difficult, and there are some fascinating rumors about how, exactly, you managed to be here today. I'm sure it's a fascinating story that involves not an iota of betrayal."

This line of conversation was not unexpected. "As far as I am aware, it involves no betrayal whatsoever. I'm in the dark as much as anyone else." Once it seemed that their pleasant conversation was going to stretch further into the night, Iorveth pulled a small curved smoking-pipe out of one of his pockets. He also unfastened a bag of mixed tobacco and smoking herbs, delicately packing the bowl tight before lighting it. 

"It's a simple story. The soldiers of Nilfgaard took all of us to the Ravine of the Hydra. They'd arranged us in a line. One by one, we were marched forward. I was second to last, and…" he paused, taking a pull of his pipe to conceal a quaver threatening to creep into his voice. "... He was behind me. I watched them slash our comrades throats and push them down into the depths below to ensure we never had a chance. That's probably part of what saved me in the end. A pile of bodies makes for a very soft fall." That much he remembered. The impact of bodies as he fell, the pain in his face, and then darkness.

"They marched me forward and made me face him. Made some cracks about killing his lover, making it hurt more." He took another long draw. "One of them had brought a spearhead for the occasion that he'd snapped off of something important. He monologued about it at length, but I didn't particularly care to remember what he said if I'm honest."

Toruviel stretched out her legs, the injured one popping nastily. Iorveth continued.

"He sliced my lip open first, slowly. It's not easy to do with a spear. They aren't exactly surgical tools. There was a lot of jabbing involved, and I'm not ashamed to say there was eventually a lot of screaming on my part. Especially when he started hitting bone."

It gave him no little pleasure when Toruviel flinched just a bit. "Once they'd mangled me to their satisfaction, the rest is simple. They grabbed me by the hair, wrenched my head back, slowly jammed the spear into my eye, and pushed me into the pit."

He let it settle at that, content to watch Toruviel become more agitated when he did not continue the story. She lasted a good twenty minutes before exploding.

"AND?"

Iorveth took a long, slow pull from his pipe. "And I came too in the woods just off of the edge of the ravine, alone and in pain. Someone had taken the time to pull me out, give me some medical attention, and leave me for dead." The stitches had been adequate but crude, but it seemed to him that whatever healing he had gotten was very strange, a combination of magical and mundane. 

"Some of our own found me eventually. They were intent on giving our corpses proper treatment. I doubt they thought they'd end up finding me," he spat on the ground, "Hale and hearty as I was."

"I'd say you were a terrible liar if I didn't know you better. That's too stupid to be false."

The pipe had gone out. Iorveth emptied it. "I'm so glad I have your approval. That's something I've always craved so." 

She stuck her tongue out at him childishly, then returned to a more calm state. The mood became somber again as she spoke. "Have you not wondered why you and not Isengrim was saved?"

Iorveth shrugged. "What's the point? Maybe he was already dead. Maybe one of the dh'oine felt guilty and came back for the horrible war criminal. Whatever it was, it happened."

They talked for a little while longer, passing the flask back and forth, Iorveth smoking bowl after bowl. They reminisced about their time together in the Vrihedd Brigade, the most ruthless and bloodthirsty of the war's elvish battalions. These two were war criminals, and some of the last remaining scraps left after the Brigade was betrayed and given to Nilfgaard to appease the humans. 

Sunset came and went, and Iorveth found himself enjoying his old comrade's presence enough to make a proposition. 

"You still remember the old magics, don't you?" 

Toruviel fell deadly serious. "I do."

"And do you remember what I asked you to do that night we plowed through the dh'oine's field hospital that February?"

The mood became downright icy. "If I remember correctly, I shall have to make you explain yourself, Iorweth."

Now Iorveth was going to have to have the hard conversation. "I need to check. More to make sure it  _ isn't _ what I think it is, because if it is, I may need to kill someone excitingly and painfully to feel better about the situation." 

She sighed. "That's a more favorable attitude than you had about Isengrim. Remember, we had to find you so many dh'oine to torture after that fell through. Failure's the more likely outcome anyway."

"That's what I'm betting on."

"And it must be now?"

Iorveth nodded. "If it is not now, it will never be. I know no one else with your skills, and I'd rather know before facing my death. It's traditional, after all, to read these things for a warrior about to go to battle, is it not."

She grimaced but did not say no. Toruviel stood up slowly without wincing, her hip relaxing in the stifling heat. The secondhand smoke from Iorveth's pipe didn't hurt either. She shuffled over to her bag and rummaged, pulling out leaves and bottles of strange colored sands. 

"There is a world where you would have been an excellent Ludowygwrach*, Toruviel."

"Pity we don't live in it, then."

Toruviel's mother had been a nearly legendary Ludowygwrach and had been training her to be the same. She'd only gotten so far in her lessons when dh'oine burned her mother at the stake, and Toruviel had decided murdering humans with a sword was more rewarding than trying to preserve their people's arts. 

She settled again on the side of the fire opposite Iorveth. "You remember your parts?"

Iorveth nodded. 

"Let's get this over with, then."

She cleared her throat and began to speak, tossing various ingredients into the fire.

“Aen me moc, aen me treise, aen me ichaer, dicea aép seov.”

Iorveth swallowed. The familiar floral scents with a deep sour tinge filled his nostrils. 

"Me ess yn."

A wad of something green was tossed in the fire, turning it a strange shade of white.

"Yn muid eirech."

Iorveth paused to draw a shaky breath. His ruined eye ached. "Twe éirigh Yn."

“Ma tha iad ceangailte, nochdaidh e..”**

For two or three hopeful heartbeats, the fire showed them nothing. If the ritual had worked, the fire would have banked suddenly and come back roaring, and then they'd have had to proceed.

He started to relax a little bit when, in the course of very few seconds, the fire shrank down to nothing and roared back with an intensity that sent himself and Toruviel scrambling backward with singed eyebrows. 

She screamed at him. "Mellitus' fertile cunt, Iorweth! What in fuck's name have you done?" 

It burned back down to a manageable size, and Iorveth was shaking on the ground. Toruviel crawled back to the fire. "There's another bit. We are having a ploughing discussion after this, one-eye, and you're going to tell me exactly what you've done- oh."

Iorveth didn't move. 

He didn't speak.

He just waited.

When Toruviel spoke again, her tone carefully even and measured. "He has got yellow eyes, Iorweth."

Panic tightened the elf's chest. 

"Lovely white hair, as well."

Iorveth's fingers dug into his palms so hard he could feel the skin break.

"Didn't think witchers were your type, but I shouldn't be entirely surprised. Was it the nickname? Going from the Iron Wolf to the White Wolf?"

"FUCK." Iorveth sat up and slammed his fist onto the cave's hard stone, scraping the skin off of his knuckles. He searched for a better explanation and could not find one, refusing to look at the flames. 

"We must've done something wrong," he growled to himself, knowing they had not.

"The magic's bad. Maybe your herbs were off?" he cried, knowing they were not.

"I don't even care about this stupid man!" he screamed, very much knowing he did.

Iorveth threw a bit of a tantrum for a while, and Toruviel sat patiently, enjoying the show. It was late, and he'd tire himself out soon, she figured.

When he finally stopped fuming and sat back down, the fire had returned to normal, and Iorveth was red as a beet. He didn't fluster easy, this she knew well, and she wanted to treasure the image for a while. Still, it had made her heart hurt for him a little when she saw a distinct roundness of the ears in the object of his affection.

"No wonder you asked, Iorweth, he must've come on very strong."

He shook his head. "No. Well, yes, but this has to be impossible. Maybe the stories missed something."

He'd only checked to make sure it wasn't the witcher. Fondness he could deal with, that could go away with time. Geralt would figure out Iorveth was horrific to be around, or the witcher would find his sorceress and move on with his life. Iorveth had sought out the songs and stories about the White Wolf, listening in dark corners where the bards could not see him. Geralt was already fated to someone else, he didn't have time to be bound to someone like Iorveth.

Iorveth was having a rather massive panic attack on the ground, which Toruviel let him have with a mild amusement. It had to be funny, the elf who hated humans most in the world had his heart and soul tied to someone who had once been human. 

"You're going to have to do something."

Iorveth did not answer her.

"You know how this goes. Those who age that fast don't tend to have a terribly pleasant time when the Seov is born."

More heavy breathing and silence.

"I suppose if you want to watch him go to pieces, you could. He is just a dh'oine, after a-"

"HE IS NOT A DH'OINE."

Dense, deep breaths rattled in Iorveth's chest. "He has said so, time and time again, that he is not a dh'oine."

"Then maybe he won't go mad. That's usually what happens in these situations, the concept of centuries of emotion goes right to their little brains and mangles them."

Iorveth knew the stories. An elf would meet a human, the magic would happen, and the elf would end up wasting away from a broken heart because the human had self-destructed in some way because they'd been driven mad, or destroyed themselves. Iorveth had accepted being alone, had accepted having a yawning void in his face, but this was too much.

"I'll fix it. Toruviel, I have to fix it. He's a witcher, he'll know how to break this thing. It's basically a curse, isn't it?"

Toruviel shook her head. "No, no it's not. Stop being stupid."

The two elves passed the rest of the night in a deep malaise. Iorveth proposed ideas, and Toruviel shot them down as best she could. Every now and again, she'd suggest Iorveth kill the witcher, and every time she became a little more worried Iorveth would shoot her.

"Well, you know what tradition mandates now, don't you Iorweth?"

He sighed. "Probably. I'm meant to declare this nonsense to the world, and then we follow each other around until the end of days? Happily ever after."

She shrugged. "It sounds ridiculous coming out of your mouth, yes, but the same sentiments sounded ridiculous when the topic was Isengrim. You've got a talent for picking men you can't have."

He sighed and did not retort, knowing it was true. Sometimes he missed Isengrim and his noble's hands and horrible, beautiful words. Sometimes he wanted to feel the pain again that came with knowing Isengrim would never want him as more than a source of stress release because longing could feel so damned good. 

"You do have to tell them. It's about time Iorweth the Butcher retired, isn't it? Make something up, say you're exhausted, or you've fallen in love with travel, you have missions elsewhere. You don't have to show everyone your underbelly."

Iorveth pondered this and did not reply

By morning he had come to no conclusions, but his aching need to see the witcher hurt almost as much as his rage at the universe for doing this to him- to  _ them _ . 

Most of Iorveth's men had headed back towards Vergen, and in the morning, Iorveth and Toruviel followed, just the two of them, and soon caught up with the group. In the distance, war raged, and Iorveth put all thoughts of the seov ar minne out of his mind. There were more important things than love in times such as these.

  
  
  


The gate had shut, their enemies were vanquished, and Geralt found it difficult to pay attention to Saskia and Phillipa discussed the matter of war reparations and recognition of the Kingdom of Upper Aedern with the defeated Henselt. Iorveth was close enough that if Geralt just shifted his weight, the back of their hands brushed, and so he did exactly that. Their shoulders pressed together only slightly, and Geralt relished the feeling immensely. He'd had no time to work on reconciling emotions with the past, so for now, he elected to enjoy himself. 

It didn't make him best pleased that he seemed to be starting over again and again with Iorveth. Just when he'd gotten used to feeling the elf's skin against his, even considering removing the scrap of bandanna from his glove, his memories had returned to leave him raw and wanting. Iorveth was no longer a significant chunk of his entire world, and he found himself aware of how strange everything was. Iorveth was not the new normal but was something unique and exciting.

Even with this joy suddenly given to him, he still felt uneasy watching the Sorceress and Phillipa speak with nearly one mind, one purpose. Saskia disagreed with nothing Phillipa said. She'd been such a firebrand of opinions, happy to contradict anything, and anyone, who came between her and her morals when he'd last seen her. Her sudden docility made Geralt's suspicion prickle.

Concern bloomed into a flower of certainty that something was afoot when the new leader of Upper Aedern ordered a man killed without trial at the suggestion of Phillipa. He felt Iorveth tense as the axe swung to kill Henselt's advisor and right-hand man, a mage who Phillipa and Saskia declared a war criminal, speaking "with one voice" as Saskia put it. 

All the leaders, old and new, and their remaining breathing advisors broke once Henselt agreed to the terms set out in their respective directions, Henselt directly to Loc Muinne for a summit of leaders and Saskia and Phillipa to prepare for the journey there. Iorveth and Geralt looked at one another and moved aside, out of earshot.

"I don't like it. I know Saskia, know her well, and she's never like that."

Jealousy bit at Geralt, but he kept it down. "Me, neither. She looks like she's taken fisstech."

"I assure you, she doesn't use it. I propose we follow, see what's going on."

Geralt agreed, readily and eagerly. Iorveth could not help but see a twinge of similarity between the witcher and Saskia in the moment.

The elf was kicking himself for immediately giving in to his want for the witcher so directly and without question when they had embraced earlier. Being conscious about the low-grade high he seemed to feel around Geralt did not make the feelings go away. As they walked towards Phillipa's temporary quarters in Vergen, Iorveth fell behind, watching Geralt walk. His stride had changed since Iorveth had seen him, so few days past. He was lighter on his feet somehow, the way his shoulders and hips swayed speaking of a life long-lived.

He'd been watching the witcher fight earlier as well. As he'd twirled and cast his Signs, he'd looked somehow more like a dancer. There was not a beat missed, no stumble. Iorveth also noticed that the witcher seemed to dodge and parry more often, killing multiple enemies one right after another after herding them into reach. Perhaps this was all because the witcher was suddenly at war, but Iorveth felt, suddenly, that he was in the presence of a much older man.

They were just in time to see Saskia and Phillipa walk through a portal, vanishing into the air. Iorveth launched forward, fingertips nearly touching the swirling circle of energy before it dissipated. He tripped and fell on nothing and skidded to the cobblestones. Geralt ran to him, picking the elf up without so much as a "By your leave." 

"I hate portals."

Iorveth looked at Geralt. "They went to Loc Muinne, didn't they? That's the only thing that makes sense."

Geralt nodded. "Most likely, unless Phillipa has something else planned we don't know about. Wouldn't put it past her, honestly."

Iorveth exhaled slowly. "Let's search her house. She was clearly in a hurry to flee so, maybe she left something."

Without a moment's hesitation, Geralt kicked in the door. He was almost surprised to see that there was no awkward scenario to walk in on, just the sorceress's various trunks and items in their usual disarray. It was hard to believe he and Iorveth had been joking with each other about Phillipa's proclivities in the bedroom not that long ago, and now the room was full of deadly silence as they opened cupboards and ripped bedclothes. 

"If only this bed could speak," Iorveth muttered darkly as he flipped the mattress off of its wooden frame to check for sequestered items. Geralt grunted in agreement, venturing further into the home. His fingers twitched against his thigh, ready to draw steel or silver as soon as danger made itself known. He had to admit, it was a surprise that no beasts made to devour the two of them for daring to be in Phillipa's private quarters. 

Something caught his eye at the back of the room. In the most disorganized corner of the house were several books and papers near an upturned lectern. 

He crouched on the ground, skimming every page. 

They were notes upon notes upon notes in Phillipa's scrawling hand. She'd been trying desperately to find substitutions for Saskia's cure, it seemed, and had made a few concerning edits. Geralt came to the dropped book and flipped through.

"Iorveth, get in here! I've found something."

He approached Geralt from behind, resting a hand on either shoulder for leverage to better peer at the book over Geralt's shoulder. Iorveth felt somewhat disappointed to find he could make neither heads nor tails of the contents. "What is it?"

"Potion recipes. Seems like Eilhart's private notes."

"And that will help us rescue the Dragonslayer, how, Gwynbleidd?"

The small jealous seed within the witcher's heart grew as Geralt continued to flip through the book. "Seems like most things around here are connected to Saskia." He turned another page, pointedly. "The dragon." 

The witcher felt Iorveth's heartbeat pick up suddenly and did his best to keep a facade of calm. His voice was measured, icy, and while he didn't enjoy his sudden shift in attitude, the witcher was finding it difficult to resist the urge to make Iorveth squirm.

Iorveth turned his head slowly to stare at the witcher. "How did you know?"

"She told me." Geralt almost wished he was a mage at this moment as he flipped through recipes for some heinous love potions. 

"You haven't told anyone?"

"No."

Iorveth relaxed slightly, allowing himself to rest against the Witcher's back. Iorveth had made so many promises to himself that he wasn't going to indulge this romantic stupidity, but he couldn't help himself. It felt good to be around Geralt, and if the elf was going to try and destroy all of this at some point, he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

"Thank you. You of all people know how dangerous it is to be different in this world. I trust my kin to keep their heads about them, but I'd rather not make Vergen's existence any more prone to being destroyed than it already is."

This quelled the growing monster within Geralt slightly. He moved on. "I've found the recipe here. Look. Usually, the cure for something is right next to the cause in these things."

"Alright. So what's the issue, then?"

Geralt pointed to something scrawled, it looked like a list. "That cure Phillipa had me looking all over for, those ingredients?"

Iorveth nodded. "Yes, I could recite them in my sleep by now. Immortelle, a power source, a Rose of Remembrance, and royal blood."

"That's what she told us. But the rose isn't mentioned anywhere in either the curse or the cure." He shut the book with a snap and stepped away from Iorveth.

"When she woke Saskia up, there was a part of the ritual that seemed odd. Phillipa put one of the rose petals on Saskia's lips and kissed her. It's possible something about the rose put her in Phillipa's power."

Iorveth balled his hands into fists. "I'll kill that bitch. What does she want?"

"We can only learn that in Loc Muinne."

Iorveth let himself be angry for another few moments, finally relaxing his hands. "Then I suppose we've a trek before us, Gwynbleidd."

Iorveth let himself be angry for another few moments, finally relaxing his hands. "Then I suppose we've a trek before us, Gwynbleidd."

*Ludowygwrach- literally “folk witch”. Keepers of traditional Aes Seidhe rituals, typically women. Male equivalent is a Lodwydewin.  
** The words to a very old Elvish ritual, said to have been adapted from Dryad ceremonies. Roughly it translates to:  
Lodowygwrach: By my magic, by my strength, by my blood, I speak to a soul.  
Seeker: I am one.  
L: We seek the other.  
S: Two to become one.  
L: If they are to be together, reveal it.


	11. Fate Be Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Iorveth are on a boat again and Geralt talks real pretty-like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long and is so short! Finals are coming and I'm writing so many papers. Will try and get more stuff out more frequently once school ends!

The only people who knew about Saskia's enchantment besides Geralt and Iorveth were the people involved, and Zoltan and Dandelion. Geralt had insisted on telling them while Iorveth protested. 

"That buffoon of a human tells everyone everything, no matter how sensitive the information! That's what bards do! Most of your personal, intimate history is public knowledge because of that ridiculous dh'oine."

Geralt couldn't entirely disagree, but he did rise to his friend's defense. "The advantage is that everyone else also knows that. If we ask him to help keep things calm, he will, and we'll buy some time before the citizens of Vergen start asking questions."

Iorveth blustered a bit, but Geralt continued to insist until the elf gave in. 

He had assumed they'd be going to Loc Muinne together, but the cockles of his heart still warmed when Geralt said, "Iorveth and I are going to Loc Muinne."

Said cockles cooled nearly immediately when Dandelion and Zoltan presumed they would be coming along. Iorveth did his best to think on his feet.

"No, no, you're needed here. The victory over Henselt was an important step, but only the first on a long road. Order must be kept, and the people need to believe in the hope they've won."

The bard perked up. "I've a hymn prepared! That ought to buck up the populace."

Geralt chimed in. "Vergen will need many more songs."

Proud as a peacock, Dandelion agreed to stay behind, and Zoltan rolled his eyes. "I suppose I'm stuck here as well. Can't have this Dandy mucking things up while you're out saving our arses."

"I can save arses just as well as Geralt can! My methods happen to be more literary and less gory."

Geralt interrupted before Zoltan and Dandelion could continue bickering. "Vergen needs a cool hand AND literary inspiration. Stay, cheer the people, and cover Iorveth and my asses while we're gone."

Dandelion made a joking salute. "Aye-aye! May our paths meet again, Geralt of Rivia!"

"Stop dramatizing. They will. You can be sure of that." He clapped the bard on the shoulder. "We've got unfinished business of our own."

Dandelion gave pause and cut his eyes over to Iorveth. "...Yes. Yes, we do."

"Huh?" Zoltan keyed back into the conversation. "OH. Oh, aye, we do."

This made Iorveth prickle. He didn't like being talked about as if he wasn't there. "If we're done being vague, the witcher and I have a nation to save."

The elf turned on his heel and stormed away, pausing to shout over his shoulder. "Let's go, Gwynbleidd!"

  
  


From the harbor that delivered Geralt and Iorveth to Upper Aedern, there would soon be a ship leaving towards Loc Muinne. The journey to the base of the Blue Mountains in the east was more than twice the distance from Flotsam to Vergen. They could try hiking the entire way, but on foot, the two would be fortunate to arrive on the peace summit's final day. A ship would carry them for one night, and then they'd be stuck walking for three, camping and roughing it in caves and along trails that Iorveth barely remembered from his youth. They broke to get their own individual supplies for the long trek to Loc Muinne, Geralt heading to scrounge from the inn and Iorveth to have a difficult conversation with his men, after changing and packing.

It was known amongst the Aen Seidhe that sometimes an elf would have to leave to follow their soul. The event wasn't common, especially in times such as these, but Iorveth hoped no-one would question him too heavily. 

How to make the announcement was the biggest issue. He probably wouldn't come back from Loc Muinne, either due to being burned alive by a dragon or because he'd decided to do what was correct by Geralt and follow the witcher off into the sunset.

In the tiny hovel that had become home, tucked away at the back of what was fast becoming a lively little Elvish district, Iorveth called his most trusted officers.

All three of them looked nervous. Iorveth supposed that was a good thing. Truth to tell, he felt the same.

"I'm leaving," he began, trying to speak evenly around the lump in his throat. "Circumstances have changed, for me, in the past few months." 

That got several knowing nods. He'd been sneaky, but not that sneaky. Iorveth continued speaking. "I have... found someone. They are very special to me, and as tradition dictates, that most noble pursuit of affection demands I either live in misery or try and work things out."

Having a culture based on beauty above all else tended to make tradition a too complicated thing. Few things were more beautiful or produced better art than love, good or ill. Still, Iorveth had been a warrior for the better part of his life, and while battlefield romances had been known to blossom between elves to the point of notoriousness, it still felt odd admitting to such feeling. 

No one interrupted him. The room's mood had lightened somewhat now that his officers knew they weren't about to be called into some other, more secret war or have to attack their new home. It had been mere hours since they'd defeated Henselt. The elves, men, dwarves, and other sundry species were exhausted and looked forward to a break in the violence and a chance to make their little nation something to take pride in. Iorveth knew that soon the district would need to expand once word got out that a country was accepting ex-scoia'tael.

"It is possible I will never see any of you again. While that saddens me at heart, it would be far worse if I were to set a bad example by rejecting tradition. You have time to think of things that are not swords and arrows now. Dol Blathanna has become the Valley of Dying Elders, and I have no faith that they will produce the promised prosperity. I want this place to become our home, the new seat of elven life." 

Letting out his emotions somewhere felt good. "What better way to set such a precedent than by setting out in happiness. I'm likely doomed, but at least I shall make a good story. To that end-" 

The gathered elves watched in awe as Iorveth unbuckled the string of trophies he wore, metal badges of human special forces troops clanging like little bells. He walked to the fire and laid them on the mantle. "Let this be a testament to my convictions. Tell the children, for children will come, why this is here. Tell them our history, and tell them true, and tell them-" he paused. "Tell them there is hope in the world."

Iorveth was still determined to make an end of all this, but if he were to be destroyed or die, he would rather it be said he vanished for something good than for the sake of destroying something ancient and holy. There was much shaking of hands and wishes of "Good luck" and "hope they're worth it" and "don't scare whoever it is away with your horrible personality!" News spread quickly but quietly that he was leaving.

The elf made his way to the docks, trying his best to look like someone embarking on a great and joyful adventure. Before he could quite make it out of the elvish quarter, Toruviel caught his eye and beckoned him into a quiet corner. She was on a beautiful set of crutches to take the weight off of her injured leg.

"So you decided to be honest. I'm surprised. I figured that your solution was going to involve stabbing your beloved in his sleep, not making a good go of it."

Iorveth deflated. "It's easier if they don't know. Besides, I can say I was mistaken and come home if something goes awry. Many an elf does such things."

"You certainly did, once upon a time. Is it the facial scars that do it for you? That's the closest thing the two of them have in common."

A suppressed snigger made Iorveth's shoulders shake violently. "Perhaps it is. Maybe the only thing destiny told me at my creation was to look for a brooding bastard with a scar on his face, and I've run after them ever since."

An awkward silence stretched between them. Toruviel scratched the back of her head and would not meet Iorveth's eyes. "I have a confession to make. There are some things I haven't told you about your situation. I've had some time to think about the stories Mother told me before she died."

Iorveth stepped in closer, looming over the smaller elf woman. "You are going to tell me exactly what you mean immediately. I am short for time, so be hasty for your own sake."

She held up her hands defensively, tottering on her crutches. "Before you kill me, I have to say none of it is sure. They're just stories my mother would tell me. She always told me varients along with the familiar stories; Ludowygwrachan need to know the whole of a thing to solve problems that might arise." 

Iorveth gritted his teeth. "What a fascinating cultural lesson. To your point?"

Toruviel spoke a little faster. "Seov aren't always a sure thing! I don't know much, and we never got into the intricacies of soul magic and whatnot, but there are a few stories about the bond failing." 

It wasn't much to go on, but there was hope. Iorveth thought quickly. "... My plans will not change. When I am somewhere that I can communicate, I will write you here." He turned away from her, staring towards the docks. "You owe me, for a few things. I am calling in a favor now- Learn for me. Resurrect your mother's legacy here if you can, keep an ear out." He turned his intense gaze back on her. "Find out how to fix this."

He stepped away from her and set out towards the docks. As he went, Toruviel called out- "It's never too late to kill him!" He made a rude gesture over his shoulder at her. She shouted again, louder. "WHAT IS NOBILITY TO THOSE SUCH AS WE?"

He spun, walking backward to fix his eye on her. "A WASTE OF FUCKING TIME, JUST LIKE YOU!"

She stuck out her tongue and made the same rude gesture back at him, and so they parted ways.

  
  


Geralt almost didn't recognize Iorveth as the elf approached him on the dock. It was broad daylight, and the elf wasn't wearing his heavy leather kilt, nor his green coat, nor his proud dangling badges of honor. The only times Geralt had seen the elf out of his standard rag-tag scoia'tael uniform were at night, and usually only because Geralt was undressing him. 

"I didn't realize you owned anything else." The only things familiar about this suit of clothes were the tight, red bandana affixed with a leather strap, the twin scimitars, and Iorveth's beautiful bow and arrows. "Not worried about getting recognized?"

Iorveth shifted the satchel on his shoulder to better accommodate its weight. "Provided I don't look like a scoia'tael, the dh'oine aren't going to recognize me. To them, I'm just a one-eyed elf with a fancy bow."

Geralt gave him a good once-over. He'd clad himself in light armor better suited to the arduous travel ahead of them. Chain mail and lots of layers were all well and good in the forests, but hiking through mountains in the middle of July required an entirely different suit of clothes. Geralt recognized the dark undershirt Iorveth sported from that fevered night they'd spent together before everything started happening all of a sudden, and the light leather coat. The jerkin and trousers were new and sturdy and hugged Iorveth just right. 

Truth be told, Iorveth looked a bit like a pirate, and Geralt was elated.

"My dashing elvish rogue." Iorveth pursed his lips, and Geralt chuckled. "Funny, we're getting on a boat again. Maybe it's fate."

"And you'd know so much about fate, Gwynbleidd." Iorveth rolled his eye. 

They had a lot to talk about on the boat.

"I do, actually. I'd love to tell you about it."

Before the elf could respond, a crew member came to summon them aboard. "Let's talk in the cabin. I don't want to be like somebody I know and promise we'll talk later, just in case it takes a whole month." 

Iorveth shrugged, at a loss for words suddenly, and followed Geralt onto the ship.

  
  


Being the saviors of Vergen had its perks. 

Geralt hadn't had to make any special requests or pay extra to get a two-person cabin, nor did anyone ask awkward questions about why he'd want to be alone with Iorveth. They probably assumed secret political plans, or maybe they'd sussed out that the witcher was growing a rapid preference for the company of men- Either way, Geralt didn't care. They were in a cramped little room with a narrow bunk and a suspended hammock, neither option ideal for sleeping together. Iorveth had wordlessly claimed the hammock by slinging his bag into it and lifting his eyebrow in challenge at Geralt.

"You wanna cater to your woodsy instincts, be my guest. I'm more than happy to get a bed." Geralt sat down on the hard mattress and stretched his legs. It'd been a miracle to have a ship leaving so soon after battle, but supplies had to get to Loc Muinne somehow. 

"More of a spoiled puppy than a white wolf, are you?" Iorveth snarked, leaning forward to scratch the witcher's head.

The room was so small that Geralt could have reached over and dragged Iorveth into his lap if he so chose, and so that was precisely what he did. Iorveth made several noises of mild protest but allowed himself to be manhandled, coming to a comfortable sideways sitting position with his arm draped around the witcher's neck. 

"You do like sweeping me off my feet. Pushy boy." He leaned down and kissed Geralt lightly. The witcher kissed back for a moment, taking Iorveth's hand and squeezing gently, before pulling back to look at him. 

"There are some things I need to tell you." Geralt turned his head slightly, pressing kisses into Iorveth's palm during pauses in his sentences. The elf allowed this gentleness as it was sending the most pleasantly electrical tingles down his spine. 

"Will it go as badly as the last time you had something to tell me? Shall I expect to slap you again?" He teased, settling more comfortably atop Geralt as the witcher's free hand pulled him in tighter. 

"If you think it's necessary. But let me speak, first." His yellow eyes met Iorveths' green one, burning and intense. "I was a husk when you met me in the woods, Iorveth." The elf's name purred and curled off of Geralt's lips. He said it like it had the most beautiful flavor in the world. "I knew nothing. I cannot honestly say that I have all of myself back, but I have enough to know a few things."

Iorveth would have gaped at the witcher were he a slightly less composed man. "So eloquent, Gwynbleidd," he murmured. 

Geralt smiled slightly and nipped at the elf's palm. "Fighting those wraiths, meeting you, they triggered something in me. The massive blast of magic on the battlefield rattled most of my memories loose. I remembered so much. A great obsession, something I thought was a great... relationship." He paused, not wanting to frighten Iorveth away now that the elf was so close to him. "It all paled in comparison to this. Let me try and tell you what I needed to in the forest."

Iorveth nodded, silently.

"When I'm with you, the world feels like a forest. It's sunny, it's golden, and green, and all I can see is your face. All I can hear is your voice." He released Iorveth's hand and reached up, undoing the buckle and head-covering that hid all of Iorveth from him. "I thought you made magic with your flute because that is how I felt when I met you. Every relationship I have had with someone feels like so many ghosts compared to this. Granted, one was based on a truly poorly thought-out wish, and the other founded on lying to me about my own past, so maybe I just have a terrible metric for what "good" feels like."

Geralt could feel Iorveth's heart hammering and breath hitching. He kept waiting for the elf to run away, but he didn't.

"When all of this is over, I want to see where this goes. I have obligations and people to find. You know the stories. But this feels too good to give up on just because Dandelion says I belong somewhere else. He exaggerates, and what I have here with you feels much more real than anything that stirs in me when I hear those stories."

He paused again, waiting, and when Iorveth didn't respond, he released Iorveth's hand to cup the elf's face. 

"Please. Once we fix this thing with Phillipa, come with me afterwards. I want to be with you then, and you can leave whenever you like, but please let me have this warmth a little while longer."

Iorveth didn't want to become another Lara Dorren, bound to a mortal destined to bring him nothing but misery. He also didn't want to just abandon Geralt to his inevitable death by pining. 

A little longer. 

That could be any length of time. Enough to enjoy himself for a smidge, then rescue the witcher from himself before returning to his life. That sounded like something Iorveth could tolerate.

He nodded, voice thick in his throat. "Yes, witcher. Yes, I think I can manage that." 

Geralt shook his head. "Say my name, Iorveth."

The elf leaned down, his lips nearly touching the witcher's.

"I think I can manage that too."

As their lips touched, soft as a whisper, Iorveth spoke.

"Geralt." He held the name on his tongue reverently, and Geralt heard the whole of himself in that name, owned and earned in Iorveth's breath. They melted into bed together, and the hammock went unused that night as witcher and elf slept, sweaty and exhausted, in one another's arms. 

"Fate, be damned," Geralt muttered into Iorveth's hair when he was sure the elf was sleeping. "I'm taking the love I choose this time."


	12. Choices and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon crashes, Iorveth starts a fight too big for him to handle, and chaos reigns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a long time coming, but it's here! Also, I just graduated from college with two degrees, one in history and one in anthropology.  
> Hardcore witcher fankids, I'm tweaking the magic system a bit. Not much, but just enough.

Once off the ship, Geralt and Iorveth settled into a comfortable routine. They would walk most of the day, scavenging or hunting what food they needed from the cliff faces or from the caves they found to camp in along the way. Iorveth relaxed into the path they walked together. "It's been a long time since I've been this way. My parents took all of us here for some diplomatic thing when I was very young."

"How young?" Geralt was skinning a mountain hare Iorveth had shot, very skillfully if he did say so himself.

Iorveth had to think about that. "Couldn't have been more than twenty summers at that point. I went back around fifty, for the nostalgia." From where he sat on a rock, sunning lazily in the light of the setting sun, he tilted his head backward to look at Geralt. "What were you doing at that age? Surely something terribly fascinating."

A deep breath of consideration rumbled out of Geralt's chest. "At twenty? Nearly done training at Kaer Morhen. At fifty, if I'm remembering right, fighting a zeugel in the sewers of Aedd Gynvael." The rabbit's skin came away quickly under his hands, laid out to dry in the sun, much like Iorveth. An embarrassing flood of memories stopped Geralt from continuing in good time. He'd been a fool, then. He was likely a fool now, but at least he wasn't chasing Yennefer around a city while she tried to make him jealous by getting engaged to another man. He told Iorveth so. "She was cruel to both me and the mage, playing us against one another. We were supposed to duel, and he was supposed to lose spectacularly."

Iorveth turned onto his belly so as to better look at Geralt. "For what? Petty amusements?" He propped his chin upon his hand. "I can't tell if you make me feel horrifically old or shamefully young. What a lot to do at fifty. What happened to the sad little mage?"

Finally satisfied with their rabbit now that it roasted merrily over the fire, Geralt turned to his new lover. "Didn't do it. Couldn't. He hadn't done anything wrong except go after a woman and act stupid. Can't fault a man for acting stupid around Yennefer, she does that to people."

It cut deep to Iorveth's core to hear about the sorceress of legend that Geralt was supposedly "meant to be with." He did not say so. 

Instead, Iorveth slipped off his comfortable rock and walked over to the witcher, settling down near him to enjoy the fire's warmth now that the sunlight was running out. "So noble of you, witcher. My old unit from the war had a saying about nobility. I'll have to tell you about it sometime." 

Geralt settled in similarly. "You really will. It's gonna take a lot longer to get the Story of Iorveth, I assume?"

The elf shook his head. "No, no. There are a few interesting bits, then lots of hanging around in the woods and occasionally breaks to kill lots of people who didn't matter all that much." 

"Sure, Roshe is going to love hearing all of the special forces you've ever encountered and wiped off the face of the earth-," Geralt paused to use air quotes, "-didn't matter all that much." 

Iorveth shoved Geralt playfully with his shoulder. "They weren't all that special if a rag-tag bunch of terrorist squirrels could kill them, were they? I've been doing the dh'oine a favor, really. My efforts have been valiantly pointing out the weak points in their armies. Selfless and extremely helpful."

Geralt caught Iorveth's head and pulled him close, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. He was a hard man to coddle, but Geralt would be damned and dead if he wasn't going to try being sweet as often as possible. He felt Iorveth deserved sweetness. He knew it, somehow, and it felt good to give. 

"So very selfless." 

Not one to be out-done in anything, Iorveth caught Geralt off guard, sitting up tall and catching the witcher's mouth with his own. He felt like a young man again swooning after the older, dramatically more experienced men around him. There was something devastatingly adult about Geralt that fascinated the boy within him who's youth had been stolen. They kissed in the firelight, enjoying the small bit of nostalgia that came with the moment. First, a boat, now a campfire. Perhaps they'd come across a dangerous gorge to rescue Iorveth from next? 

The elf pulled them down and incited a small struggle, which he won proudly, shifting to force the witcher to rest his head on Iorveth's chest. "You won't get out of finishing your story, witcher. Come, you were in Aedd Gynvael, the city of the Ice Shards. Surely you encountered the dreaded Ice Queen? She who rides through the snows, kicking up slivers of ice to embed themselves into the eyes of the unsuspecting and drive them mad with want?"

Geralt shook his head. "Nah. Pretty sure she's just another allegory for the Wild Hunt anyway." He twisted to get a look at Iorveth. "Why, you do something like that to me?" 

A short, barking laugh forced its way out of Iorveth's mouth. "No such luck, witcher. I'm afraid you're stuck with me via organic means." That was mostly true. Seov were naturally occurring things. 

Darkness' cape crept skyward, the first little stars blinking their sleepy eyes down on the two men. Iorveth pointed up at one he recognized.

"That's a rather special star, and very hard to see. We must be in the right atmosphere for it to make a debut. Stories say the soul of something magical lives in it, and it hears hopes and dreams. Tradition demands we make a wish."

Geralt snorted. "Don't have the best track record with wishes, but I can try. Do I tell you what it is, or is this one of those secret wish things?"

"The secret kind, usually."

The witcher settled in, their dinner cooking, the path clear, and hope for the future threatening to become a real and permanent part of his life. He wished as he'd never wished before that he and Iorveth could have something together at the end of everything. Something good. 

All Iorveth wished for was for things to turn out the way they needed to. 

"Is this supposed to tingle or something? I'll be honest, wishes usually make me nervous. I start looking for angry djinn."

With a shake of his head, Iorveth dissipated Geralt's concerns. "No, nothing so dramatic. All we do now is wait and see."

Geralt could do that.

The rest of the road to Loc Muinne had been less pleasant than that first night. Rain bucketed down, soaking them both through nearly every afternoon. That did mean they spent every night nude with their clothes dried by the fire, huddled together "for warmth." They still made little excuses like that now and again as if practicing for talking to other people. Few places in the world would tolerate their relationship. They'd discussed it once in a semi-serious discussion while each man was too dozy to feel awkward about the situation. Off the top of his head, Geralt could think of parts of Ofir or Zerrikania. Iorveth brought up Dol Blathana, Skellige, and, if they rescued the dragon, Upper Aedern. "Elves and dwarves don't care so much for these things. I'm too old to have children, it matters not who I lie with." 

Geralt mentioned Toussaint, arguably the area most prone to tolerating nonstandard relationships, only to be sharply reminded by Iorveth of the South's betrayal of the Soia'tael. He would not easily be allowed anywhere in the Nilfgaardian empire, nor would he want to go there while the blasted Emperor was still on the throne.

Rage boiled in the witcher's stomach, not at Iorveth, but at that blasted man's name. 

"Hatred's mutual."

Geralt did not elaborate, and Iorveth chose not to pry but made a note to inquire further at a later time and place. He felt as if he'd known Geralt for all of a moment and for decades, constantly thrown off-kilter by the ease he felt and how little he truly knew of this man. 

Iorveth changed topics by brushing out the tangles in Geralt's soft white hair, cuddling chest to warm chest while he chastised the witcher for his far too lax care of himself. "Being grey is no excuse; you have lovely hair. It deserves to be combed and loved."

"So comb it for me," Geralt mumbled, nuzzling his face deep into Iorveth's skin and breathing him in as he drifted off. 

In the morning, Geralt woke to find his hair braided rather beautifully. He could definitely get used to this.

"Promise me something, Geralt." Creeping dread grew deep in Iorveth's gut as he saw his witcher sheath a knife designed to sever a dragon's heart into his belt. They'd been in Loc Muinne not long at all, and already life was getting exhausting. Phillipa had nearly murdered them, he'd had to watch Geralt get a royal pummeling from a Golem, and now the genuine possibility that the witcher was going to have to slay Saskia stared him in the face. "Please don't kill her."

The witcher didn't answer right away. Some arguments arose in the two days they'd been here. Iorveth was a cruel, horrific killer, cutting swaths of corpses with little regard for who was in his way. He tormented and played games, taunting the blind Phillipa during her escort through the sewers after they had "rescued" her. Geralt had been genuinely surprised that Iorveth hadn't pushed a thumb into one of her newly-empty sockets. Geralt was caught nigh-perpetually between admiration and disgust for his brutality, where before he'd only been impressed. 

Having more than a year's worth of personality was presenting some ethical dilemmas. Different sets of affection were warring within him, and every time he picked Iorveth over Triss, guilt drove a blade that much further in his gut. Everything that had been easy and perfectly natural before breaking the battlefield curse felt perverse when anyone else bore them witness. Geralt could ignore his misgivings when they were alone, wrap himself up in the illusion of a private universe, but reality stabbed through the moment anyone else entered the picture. 

It wasn't the sweetness that got him, either, but the lack of care for life that made Geralt's inner vision of Iorveth split double- One side the elf man he knew with hard, gentle hands, the other something bordering on a monster.

He was also trying desperately to puzzle out why he felt so much envy when Iorveth prioritized Saskia. It was sensible! It was natural! Political issues took precedence over interpersonal relationships. Geralt knew this in his bones.

And yet he still felt a green-eyed monster wearing his face.

Geralt considered Iorveth's request with this in mind. "Fine." He said, simple, and made to walk away. If Iorveth wanted him to die for a cause, Geralt could do that. Iorveth caught his arm. "Don't kill her unless you have to, Geralt, to save your own life. Saskia's important, but we could feasibly find another leader if we had to."

Iorveth took the witcher's hand, lifting it to press a kiss to his knuckles like a knight courting a noble lady. "Monarchs are replaceable. I have only the one Geralt." 

The witcher couldn't help but smile a little, his inner beast placated. "Ask me like that, and I'll say yes to just about anything."

"Then I'll ask you also to promise you'll come back in one piece." 

Geralt agreed by kissing Iorveth, long and slow. It was a rough kiss in that both were rough men. Both tasted like blood, chapped lips, and the sort of adrenalin that would leave them battered at the end of this. Geralt kissed Iorveth like he was afraid this was the last time they'd ever touch each other like he wanted to drive all possibility of losing Iorveth from his mind. Iorveth felt the excess energy of Geralt's Quen sign, the protective yellow shield that flickered around him like ball-lightning, sting his flesh deliciously. They scrabbled at each other, bodies and mouths making wordless promises of the future.

They agreed to split up in case Phillipa alerted anyone to their presence in the city and agreed to meet on the morrow when the peace summit began. 

Iorveth promised to show Geralt this city some day. "You deserve to know it as something good and whole. I'll spin you such stories, witcher."

One way or another, they would fix things in Loc Muinne.

  
  


Iorveth's nerves came alight with pain as the heat of the dragon's flame licked at his skin. 

Things had not gone entirely to plan. 

The secret society the Lodge of Sorceresses was publicly revealed, King Radovid the Mad had shown up to yell about how all mages should be murdered and had started a bloodbath, and then, of course, Sile and Phillipa had forced Saskia to turn into a dragon and spew fire all over the place. Loc Muinne, the abandoned city of the Elves and those who went before, was burning. Stone shouldn't have been able to burn this way, but Iorveth was not one to tell a dragon's flame what it was and was not allowed to do. 

Walls of flame blocked Iorveth off from most of the courtyard and from Geralt. He watched, helpless, as the dragon alighted on a tall tower like this was some sort of horrific fairy tale. Geralt was torn between trying to save Iorveth and trying to save the day. Iorveth got as close as he could to the witcher and shouted through the pain in his smoky lungs.

"Geralt, we're trapped! I can't get through! SILE, YOU MUST GET SILE."

Two options warred visibly on Geralt's face, but he elected to do as told. As Geralt ran away from him Iorveth ordered him not to die, and he thought the witcher heard him. Probably. 

Eventually, he had to step away from the flames and back against one of the walls. There was little he could do to help. Iorveth's sense of duty tapped his conscience on the shoulder, and while it was distracted, guilt sucker-punched it in the metaphorical stomach.

Geralt was saving Iorveth's world, had repeatedly risked his mind and health for the sake of the elf. It was time to pay that favor back. Iorveth looked around desperately for some point of egress, finding it in a wall crumbling from the heat. He ran and vaulted, ignoring the new surge of pain as his clothes were burned, and a portion of his skin went with it. He'd suffered worse things for lesser men, and at this point, what was another scar?

"Where is it, where the devil is it?" he muttered frantically. The city looked so different when he wasn't wandering the sewers, notably decrepit with decay.

And on fire.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, got stuck down two dead ends (one naturally occurring, the other the result of more fire), and finally managed to go against the flow of fleeing dh'oine to find the prisons Radovid the Mad had co-opted for holding the sorceress Phillipa and, presumably, Triss Marigold. 

Presumptions are not always correct, and Iorveth found nothing. 

Despair threatened to overcome him, and the fire was getting closer. He didn't have a clear view of the tower, or of Geralt from where he was. He debated returning to try to help, but something caught his eye.

The giant witcher, the Betrayer who had caused most of this mess, ran through an alcove. 

"You keep making decisions for me, don't you, Kingslayer." 

Iorveth scaled a broken wall and followed wherever it was the mountain of a man was heading. If the elf couldn't save Triss, maybe he could deliver the man who tainted his beloved's reputation like a trussed-up holiday goose for Geralt to do what he wished with. 

Thinking "beloved" nearly sent Iorveth tumbling, sending bricks careening to the street just as Letho turned a corner into what looked like an old castle. 

A conflict was brewing. Iorveth let himself fall on the next jump and rolled to his feet, cobblestones scraping raw skin off of his festering burns. He did not scream, but in a few hours, his arm and leg would be fully out of commission, and his torso was not much behind them. He was not a witcher. The pain did not just cease to occur to him. He felt every twinge and ripple of pain as he moved. Training had given him the skill and discipline to ignore it, but that did not make it go away. For the moment, Iorveth was managing, and he would keep doing so until he could move no longer for Geralt's sake.

Inside would be close-quarters, and a bow would do him no good. Twin scimitars slid out of their sheaths for him into well-recognized hands. Iorveth was an archer first and a swordsman at a close second, certainly one of the best fighters with a blade in the scoia'tael. Eilwen Glendahaf had not raised her children to be anything less than perfect in combat and did not neglect their education in anything. As he stalked through the great double-doors into a smoldering foyer of stone, he thought of his mother and sisters. Ita had been the best of them with swords and knives, and little Iorveth had dominated with a bow. They'd been taught all the courtly manners and graces like little ladies and lords, reading, drawing, languages, music, but the fighting had been most valuable. 

Iorveth stalked Letho through the halls like a shadow stalking a nightmare. 

His mother would have been proud. Perhaps not proud of how he honed his childhood skills, but that he had retained them. Much of what he knew dwelled in the back of his mind, but the family tradition of fighting would last in him until his dying day. 

He followed Letho into the heaving belly of a dungeon. Somewhere nearby, the fire must have spread to the basement of another house, making the stone heat up gradually like a well-insulated oven. It made the burns on his flesh pulse. Iorveth nearly managed to sneak up behind the rogue witcher as he wrenched the sorceress Triss's cage open. Still, she had spotted Iorveth creeping from the hall and decided to scream about the elf rather than the hulking murderer. 

Iorveth was forced to sacrifice a very elegantly planned move that would have involved slicing through the back of Letho's legs to at least partially incapacitate the Kingslayer in favor of rolling out of the way of him smashing a sword down where Iorveth's head had been moments ago. Sparks flew over the dungeon's stones, and Iorveth rolled into a crouching position to launch forward again in a whirl of steel and rage towards Letho's face. They met and separated time and time again and started out on equal ground, each leaving a knick or slice here and there. Iorveth felt fairly proud of himself when he sliced through a reasonably significant chunk of Letho's arm and sprayed witcher blood. There was little Triss could do to help, chained to a wall as she was. After her initial scream at seeing Iorveth, she kept silent, and the elf could not entirely blame her. The last time they'd been aware of one another's presence was back in Flotsam. He almost missed the town, now. 

He was no knight in shining armor, nor was he a handsome witcher come to sweep her off her feet and into the sunset. There was no guarantee for her that Iorveth was going to be any kinder than Letho. He'd had some words rehearsed to calm her, hadn't planned on cluing her in to how close he and Geralt had gotten, but Letho's presence had mucked everything up as it tended to do.

They did not speak as they fought. There was no need. Steel spoke for them and expressed more rage and disdain than a tongue could. Finally, his injuries began to slow Iorveth down, and Letho took his chance. In mere seconds Iorveth went from standing, sharp edge of a scimitar ready to slice off the top of Letho's skull and expose what little brains he had, to find his head cracking against the hard stone floor. Heat the room's air shimmer like a mirage. Iorveth struggled to get to his feet and failed as Letho grabbed the elf's arm and twisted, taking off a layer of burned skin. Iorveth screamed, eye squeezing shut, just long enough for Letho to smash the elf's head in and send him into darkness.

Geralt had made it to the top of the tower and faced down the gigantic dragon who was at once Saskia and not. He'd stabbed her repeatedly, dodged flame and claw, and now the reckoning came. In the room below, the sorceress, Sila, had been ripped to shreds as her teleporter had malfunctioned. Geralt had remembered Iorveth's face behind a wall of flame and the pain in his eye when he watched Saskia shed her human skin and become a dragon, possibly destroying the elf's dream of a better world where he and his kin could live unmolested. He had watched her die with no mercy or malice in his heart, only a dull satisfaction that he was doing something deserved.

It would haunt him later. He was sure of it, but at the time, no hesitation. Leaving her to her fate was the correct choice.

Now he would have to try and save a fucking enraged dragon. Saskia pulled away to swoop at him a final time, circling the tower for momentum. Geralt would not survive another attack from her and made a difficult decision. He'd die either way. Risk versus reward was very high.

With all the speed he could muster Geralt ran and launched himself off of the edge of the tower, flailing in the empty air for too many moments. His stomach dropped, death yawned at him just as the dragon flew under him, and Geralt slammed his sword into her back to create a handhold. The dragon screamed, buckling underneath him. Geralt's blade buckled but did not break off, nor did his grip waver as Saskia's once delicate dance of aerial death broke into a desperate buck-and-weave with no sense of where she was going. Wind tore at Geralt's skin, and dragon scales cut through his leather armor into his flesh. Saskia was trying with all her might to throw him off and onto the ground with no success. The witcher refused to let go. It was not for dear life that he held on but for the love of a man who would not forgive Geralt if he failed. He held on for the people of Upper Aedirn and the delicate roots they'd placed there. Most of all, he held on because he needed to. 

Saskia crashed into the ground and took to the air once, twice, thrice, and her thrashing nearly dislodged him. One hand now gripped the sword, muscles, and joints screaming in agony as Geralt groped at his belt for the jeweled dagger that would save them all. The promise Iorveth had gotten out of Geralt echoed in his head- "Don't kill her unless you have to, Geralt, to save your own life." 

Immediate peril did threaten him, but Geralt held himself back. He would die honoring Iorveth's wishes if he died at all.

Dragon and witcher flew over the ruined city of Loc Muinne, over the mountain paths, and plunged into a scant forest just on the city's outskirts. There were few trees- little grows well on stone- but fate waved her lazy hand just a bit to aim Saskia at the one massive, jutting pine that had fallen in a storm. Her speed and weight were immense as she smashed into the wood, running herself through and nearly turning Geralt into shish kebab. The witcher's fingers had had enough by now, as had his arm, which ripped violently out of socket as he rolled off of Saskia's back and directly into a boulder.

Concussed bafflement prevented him from rising too quickly. Saskia's screams of pain echoed in his ears and likely damaged his hearing. Geralt counted himself lucky that he'd rolled far enough to be just out of reach of her near-death thrashing. A dragon in death throes was no mean thing.

He waited until she stilled but still lived. Blood oozed lazily onto the grass. Geralt idly thought of how many people would be scrabbling to collect as much of the precious ichor as possible. Its value was incomparable. Dragons could probably make a golden horde out of occasional bloodletting and be none the less hale and hearty for it. 

Dagger in hand Geralt stumbled towards the general, the virgin, the dragon, and looked her in the eye.

"I wasn't gonna kill you if I didn't have to." 

Saskia stilled. With one good toss of her mighty head, the witcher could be dead in a moment. She looked at the dagger he hefted in his hand and moved slightly, clearing the way between him and her scaly chest. He could hear her dragon's heart beating erratically, struggling to stay alive. One stab and it would all be over.

Phillipa was a liar and a cheat. Geralt pressed the knife, flat, against the dragon's chest, and felt his medallion tingle against his skin. It did not break through scale and flesh as a blade was meant to. He watched, impassive, as the dagger ceased to be a dagger and melded with the dragon's flesh. Metal and jewel turned to scale and sinew, and Saskia regained power over her own heart.

The sorceress Phillipa had said her spell "made Saskia feel like she was in love." There was no love spells Geralt knew that involved stabbing the victim to death with anything, but there were some ancient elven ones that required one to put the victim's heart inside an object. As long as that object remained separate from the enspelled person, their will would not be their own. Under normal circumstances, Geralt might've destroyed the blade, but that posed a very high risk. Destruction had been plan B.

In a hale of golden sparks, Saskia shrunk and twisted until she was once again in her bipedal form and no longer impaled on a gigantic tree. 

"You look tired, witcher," she said eventually, struggling to her feet. 

He nodded. "I am. Holding onto a raging dragon isn't easy."

"Being a raging dragon isn't much easier." She laughed, looking up at the bright blue sky overhead. "We can skip the niceties, I think."

"Yeah. No point, really."

Saskia let the silence hang for a while before speaking again, eyes still affixed upwards. "You would fight on, I feel, if needed. Why do you not run me through now?"

"Don't kill dragons if I can help it. And I owe enough people your life, it'd probably trigger some blood-debt curse if I killed you. Think I met a relative of yours a while back."

Saskia laughed again as she lowered her head and limped to a nearby tree stump to sit. "Yes, I believe you made the acquaintance of my father. Villentretenmerth is how I knew him, although he probably was playing at being Borch Three Jackdaws to you." 

Geralt nodded, and Saskia continued. "He loved people, you know. I got that from him. Wouldn't know what I got from my mother- but you know that story." A smile crept into her voice that did not follow onto her face. 

"You were a cute kid," Geralt admitted. "For a dragon. I think. Not that clear on dragon standards for cute children. What's he up to these days?" 

The dragon-woman gave him a look that Geralt couldn't puzzle out. "Who's to say? He taught me all he wished to, and flew off yonder. Such is the dragon's way. I'm not quite as skilled as he, but what he left me has kept me well alive for the time being." She heaved a heavy sigh. "I promised you we would talk, back in the caves. Take your potions, and we can do so now. I'll not stay a moment longer near that cursed city than is necessary."

Never one to deny a woman who could turn him into a crispy entree, Geralt did as she bid, electing to kneel on the ground to better keep his balance while the potions did their painful work. "You said something about old magic. Explain."

"It is difficult to explain in understandable terms, but I shall do what I can. The way father described it was esoteric at best and whimsical at worst." The smile finally reached her mouth and eyes. "Silly old man. You see, the magic of your medallions and of your human mages is different than the oldest magics. I do not mean the mages of elfkind, but the ancient races of this land."

"Dryads, dragons, things like that?" Geralt guessed. She nodded and continued.

"Them, yes, exactly. They draw, or drew, magic from somewhere different than the magicians of today. The magic of sorcerers comes from harnessing chaos to do one's will, but that is not the nature of all magic. Your medallion is tuned-in to the things that slip through into this world and the chaos they bring. All the monsters and the magic are a drain. The mages must kill or destroy or malform to enchant things; dragons do not, just as Dryads need no death or destruction to bring their trees to life."

This was not new information to Geralt. Not entirely. It was instead a series of unspoken assumptions made on behalf of himself and the witchers around him. It made mages uncomfortable to think that magic existed outside of their sphere of operations, and so most ignored it. Witchers didn't need to deal with magic that didn't threaten humans, a category dragons and dryads typically fell into, so they didn't care too much if something clearly magical didn't alert the medallion to its presence.

"Like magic recognizes like magic is what you're saying."

"Yes, for the most part. There is something on you that I could say I recognize. It is not a spell exactly. It also is magic, but nothing of dragons. Something much older. The magic felt elven, but it is also somehow not of their making."

She stood up and stretched, shoulders and back popping into place. It wouldn't surprise Geralt if her impalement knocked several bones loose. "Do you read legends for pleasure, witcher? Anything that might fall out of your jurisdiction?" 

He shook his head. "Can't usually find the time. Would like to read more, but-"

She waved her hand to quiet him. "There is a connection between the two of you. When I changed before you in the tunnels, you made my scales itch. And when you ran to embrace him it happened again, although I had no scales to show. The two of you smack of legends.

"I don't have anything particular to tell you, but you reek of magic both old and obnoxious. It's magic that isn't magic- it is something that grows organically." 

Saskia rubbed her temples. "It gives me a headache. I ask if you read stories for pleasure because I thought that perhaps, with a little jogging, your memory would supply what is happening for you." Suddenly her head jerked up, bright and impossibly blue eyes boring into his. "You are an enigma to me, and that causes much vexation. Magic brings me a certain paranoia of late, and if I had not just spent much of the last months enspelled, perhaps this conversation would be more coherent. Magic threw me into a comatose state, and then it enslaved my mind. It is fortunate that Phillipa is not here, for she is no longer so bright and beautiful to me. I might even break her neck if I were to see her again." She spoke faster and faster until coming to an abrupt stop. Saskia processed what she had said with shock scrawled over her face. 

"Pardon me for being meandering, but translating lessons not taught in a common tongue is difficult enough on its own, much less with my mind in such a tangle." She stood up and paced back and forth in short, sharp strides. "Do not judge a bird for being unable to explain the allure of the sky, witcher, and do not judge me for finding it challenging to explain this sort of magic. It is old as the world we walk upon and built into the foundations of the dirt and the trees." She paused and crossed her arms, biting into the back of her knuckles. "He ought to be the one explaining this, but he may not know," she muttered to herself.

Saskia whipped around to look at the witcher and pointed at him. "You. You will ask Iorveth about this. I would have you know that you and he are bound by fate, or destiny, or some such thing. There is a magic radiant on both of you, and when you are together, it is nearly blinding. Ask him what is happening, and take care of it yourselves." She let her arm drop, and shoulders sag in relief. 

Geralt was entirely rattled. "I understood maybe half of that, so if it'll calm you down, fine. I'll talk to him. I can understand why you're concerned." He rolled his words around inside of his mouth, pondering them. "On behalf of us both, I'll thank you." 

She leveled him with a knowing look.

"Sometimes, I wish I could see the future like my father did. I feel so young and deprived of the necessary words to say what it is I want to. At the very least, I can say that I am happy you've found joy in one another's arms. I do not fully understand your preferences, as truth be told, I prefer dwarf women over elven men, but know you will find no prejudice in my Aedern when you visit." 

The emphasis placed on the word "visit" was not lost on Geralt. "Don't worry. Don't tend to settle in one place for long." 

"Be that as it may, you will be welcome as a hero and farewelled with a warmth that will welcome you back." 

He had no reply and so inclined his head in a small bow of gratitude. They both waited awkwardly for the other one to say goodbye.

"Well," Saskia finally managed, "This has been perhaps the strangest day of my life. Do not forget to talk to Iorveth, witcher. I say this as a favor to you. There is no pleasure in walking the world under the burden of an unknown magic, I would know."

They said their goodbyes, Saskia taking flight towards her new city and her people, and Geralt back towards Loc Muinne. He still had Triss to save, and Iorveth to find, and a kingslayer to beat the absolute shit out of. Saskia forced him to think on the rocky road to Loc Muinne. He knew there was magic, and now that he had most of himself back, he didn't have any excuse to prevent his pondering. Geralt pulled the red sliver of bandana out of his glove and rolled it between his fingers. 

Love magic didn't work on witchers. He and everyone he knew accepted this as fact, but what if it wasn't? Old folk stories always made a fuss about two people immediately drawn to one another, but magic as strong as true, unshakable love was rare and strange. He could barely think of the words "True love" without losing his footing. 

Regret grappled with his old self. If he'd just been satisfied and accepted life as it was instead of needing to discover the reason behind everything, maybe he could be happy. 

He played out possible curses and concepts as the city drew closer with every footstep, looming like a beast in the dark. Though the sun shone bright in the hot summer afternoon, it seemed a shadow still gloomed the stones and spires of Loc Muinne. Snatches of screams put speed in Geralt's steps. Saskia's fires were long put out, but Geralt saw plumes of white smoke spiraling into the sky, the wind blowing a horrific scent into Geralt's face. It was flesh, bodies, and bones, burning. 

  
  
  
  
  



	13. Burns and Bedsides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know that "Author chose not to use archive warnings" thing? Here's where one of those comes in. V I O L E N C E. It gets graphic, soldiers talk about sexual assault and a guy's eyeballs pop. If you want to skip this part, I will put the words "END OF EXTREME VIOLENCE" at the break. Search for those words, and you're in the clear. PG Summary: Geralt does a lot of violence to the Knights of the Flaming Rose, which would normally be out of character violence, but he has a PTSD flashback because Hunt Trauma. The Knights are torturing and killing all the mages and Geralt gets a bit unhinged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM BACK! WOO! And I've already started the next chapter of the fic :D Sorry it took me so long, y'all. I started reading the books for backstory, and it just ate all my time. At any rate, I have a lot more material to work with and I am STOKED. Thanks for waiting <3

Geralt scaled the walls back into the city. He felt a sincere gratitude that his mutant physiology prevented him from vomiting violently. Death and blood oozed from every pore of Loc Muinne. Geralt clambered up the crumbling stone to perch on a high wall. There was no way to get through the city without casualties, and he would spill more blood today. At minimum, Geralt would need to find an entrance to the sewers, and there was no guarantee there wouldn't be any soldiers there either. 

Witchers weren't made to kill humans. They weren't meant to get involved in political squabbles. The School of the Wolf pressed these lessons over and over again into the minds of aspiring witchers. If a human must die, then it must be quick and clean. Wolf-witchers are not torturers, and only the bastards at the Schools of the Cat or the Viper play with their prey thusly. 

Even with these thoughts in mind, Geralt felt an uncomfortable itch. He found himself looking around furtively for something he could not name until, hoisting himself over a particularly tall ledge, he realized it was Iorveth he was searching for. In some other world, perhaps the elf had reached down to grasp the witcher's hand and hoist him up. They'd embraced as friends, as lovers, as something powerful and lasting. Geralt's heart hurt at the thought of it.

Longing vied with hatred for the Flaming Rose as he slipped into an alleyway, neatly dispatching two men who didn't have the opportunity to breathe before they met their makers. Violence whispered around every corner, and Geralt could not quell the feral hope inside him. It first whispered that perhaps in this courtyard or around this wall, Geralt would see his elf dispatching men left and right, and then built to a yell within the witcher demanding to see the scarred, unpleasant elf again. 

Every other street ended in rubble or a naturally made dead-end. Frustration mounted in Geralt's chest, winding and tightening like thick serpent-strong coils to choke the witcher's natural predication towards calm. Each dead knight died a little slower, a little more painfully. He found himself kicking stones to alert them to his location, put them on guard, and guarantee a fight. 

Geralt began grabbing blocks of rubble to crush skulls and bones, using Yrden to allow the slow, sickly push of a sword through their bodies. The Hunt were artists and masters of torment, and a man cannot ride with them and walk away talentless in those infernal arts. 

Ambushing small groups at random was all well and good, but soon Geralt came to a genuinely grisly horrorshow that rivaled his carnage tenfold.

A dozen or so knights hoisted mages on pikes, alive and screaming. The knights aimed their bows or pelted bits of masonry at the mages until death finally came to take the miserable retches away from his mortal coil. The ropes that bound the victims pulled so tight that the flesh began to turn purple almost immediately. One cable pulled too fast, choking a man to death before the soldiers could finish having their fun with him. Geralt starred from his hiding place at the lolling, discolored tongue as he gasped his last.

The soldiers laughed and joked about sorceresses' ripped clothes, mocked women's threats and pleas for mercy. The Order of the Flaming Rose had once again crossed a line while Geralt was present, and on this day, he would make them pay in pounds of flesh equal to that which they had taken. 

The four men most responsible for inflicting pain peeled off from the greater group to patrol. Geralt followed silently atop the walls and listened to them, hate raising bile into the witcher's soul. 

One was bragging to the other about a conquest, not an hour past. A young sorceress had tried to fight him off to preserve her sister's life, and the solider had made a bargain - she could submit to his will, and the other girl might go free. 

In the most technical sense, he had kept his word. He dragged the younger sister to the high city walls' edge to "let her go" to her death on the rocks below. "Young Blowswerd, you did very well, I think. Stomped the mouthy bitch's head in once we were plowin' 'er. Said the funniest thing, too! Awe, what were it..."

The youngest man who Geralt presumed to be Blowswerd replied, bold as brass, "I said, "Gotta stomp bitches like this. They're like cockroaches with cunts, keep comin' back until you splatter 'em on the stones." He sounded so proud of himself, full of the glow of a conquering hero. 

The last thread of tolerance for mankind snapped in the witcher, and a cold resolve settled upon him. The knights he tailed shivered collectively as if someone had walked over their graves. Geralt thought of Ciri, or Triss suffering such a fate and had to hold himself back from merely killing the lot of them. Even Sile, a woman Geralt had condemned to death by disintegration, did not deserve such punishment. 

Even as the shadow of death looming over them, the men joked and talked as they walked, and Geralt plotted. Eventually, Blowswerd was left behind to take his watch alone. The last friendly words he would ever hear faded in the distance, his captain jovially saying, "I Think that lad's got a good future with us."

Old Vesimir's lessons played in Geralt's head.

"Witchers hunt monsters."

Geralt felt the weight of his sword in the palm of his hand. He'd gone through many over the decades, adjusting to the balance, learning the pommel's curves, oiling the blade. There would be no augmentation today, just the cut and bite of steel into flesh and bone. 

"There is nothing more repulsive to mankind as a witcher."

He crept silently behind the lone soldier. He looked young, barely twenty. Geralt could see dark blood-splatter on his gloves, flecks of brain matter, and hair on his boots. Young and already enjoying the bloodthirst inherent to the Flaming Rose and its cohorts. Fast as a curse, the witcher gripped the knight's neck. He snapped it in a precise and delicate manner, the bones barely crunching as he crumpled to the ground in a state of paralysis. 

"Sometimes, men are the monsters we need to hunt."

The knight's muscles twitched lightly, drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth. Geralt circled him, pausing as the knight's eyes widened in fearful recognition. It was gratifying to know some people could still recognize a witcher on sight. Like a fish stranded on the shore, the paralyzed knight floundered ineffectively, gulping at the air in an attempt to scream and alert his comrades. Geralt could hear two other knights talking mere feet away on the other side of a stone wall.

"Do whatever it takes to destroy the monsters."

The witcher crouched down and starred at Blowswerd. "I could leave you here, let you live your life like this," he mused, "Or I could make an incision, right here, and let you choke to death on your own blood." Geralt tapped the knight's exposed throat. The man made a high-pitched gurgling sound that could have been a scream or a sob. 

Geralt raised his hand and muttered, "Igni." 

The witcher rendered Saskia's destruction in miniature on the knight's body. Flame arced across his armor, sparking on metal and curling his belt and vambraces' thick leather. Geralt held the sign until the chainmail and small plate armor heated up red-hot, and the knight's flesh joined the stench of the burning corpse piles throughout Loc Muinne. The man on the ground couldn't scream or thrash; he could only writhe as tears ran down his face. 

When a person is trapped in a burning house, or burned at the stake in the right circumstances, the heat and smoky air tends to cook and smother the lungs first and provide the victim a relatively quick death. Geralt did not wish to give the knight such succor in his passing.

The witcher aimed his fire carefully, keeping the young man alive and awake as long as possible. This death was neither good nor honorable. Truth be told, Geralt did not know when the man managed to die. It occurred sometime between the eyeballs reaching so high a temperature that they cooked and popped like over-done eggs, and the point at which all the muscles stopped twitching. Geralt only stopped burning him when the last parts of the skin were rendered black as coal. 

He looked at the wall separating him from two more breathing victims. They had not noticed their comrade. 

Once he was certain the of the man's death for Geralt looked at the corpse's boots again and remembered the thick bits of brain that coated the metal. He remembered the sorceresses, some of them young and new, excited to be on their first diplomatic mission, and how they would never set foot into men's halls again. 

A pity he hadn't started at Blowswerd's feet and worked his way up. The sun was climbing higher in the sky and Geralt regretted how long he'd taken to have his fun.

Riding with the wraiths had changed something in him. The kindness inherent to a witcher, the pity for mankind, and all its ilk built into a roaring, angry fire in every witcher's chest had dwindled to an ember. 

Geralt still desired to do the job he had been crafted for. He yet wanted to protect and keep the hurting and the harmed. 

He had just expanded his definition of a monster.

Sometimes monsters need a taste of their own medicine.

The sword did not sing for blood. There is no poetry in the need to separate heads from shoulders, to hear the wet rips and cracks of flesh and bone rending. Geralt was not an artist, nor was he a dancer this day. 

He was the reaper of men.

The people of Blaviken, two lifetimes ago, thought they had seen what a monster a witcher could be. Geralt had mercifully, quickly, dispatched Renfri's men. He thought of them now as he sliced the talking knight's head clean in two, catching his sword between the man's jaws and severing. 

No songs would be sung his deeds at Loc Muinne.

The knight's friend he left, limbless and suffocating on his own tongue. A raven descended, and Geralt heard it begin pecking and ripping at the man's tender exposed meats. 

No title would he earn.

Three men soon turned into ten, then twenty, the witcher sweeping as a plague through the dying city. He took some small inspiration from the knights themselves, tossing men onto bonfires and jamming them onto beds of spikes. Blood and guts splattered the ground in his wake like a macabre parody of parade streamers.

No songs, no titles, no witnesses.

END OF EXTREME VIOLENCE

Geralt extracted his sword from the gut of his last kill. Unfortunately, the brains behind this horrorshow, Radovid, the Mad King of the North, had fled before the bloodshed could start in earnest. If the opportunity arose, Geralt would not hesitate to destroy that man. 

The setting sun appropriately painted the stones of Loc Muinne a deep and bloody red, spilling itself as Geralt had spilled blood. There were no soldiers left in this place. Only ghosts. 

He found Letho sitting in the center of what was the Rose's camp. The hulking Viper was not poised to fight and did not move even as Geralt approached, sword drawn. 

"Would think twice a'fore doin' that, White Wolf." 

Geralt was close enough to sheer the skin off Letho's bare scalp, but he didn't. The white-haired witcher circled the bald one, Geralt more a viper than Letho in his readiness to strike, and froze. Triss's knees were drawn up to her chin as she sat on the ground. She looked tired but well, but she only caught Geralt's attention for a moment as, splayed next to her, the tip of Letho's sword pressed to his neck, lay Iorveth.

His eye was cloudy and barely open, blood caking the back of his head. Time stood still as Geralt watched Iorveth take a few shallow breaths. He wasn't dead. Yet.

"Took you a while," Letho spoke slowly without a hint of concern. "Sheath your sword. I'm lookin' forward to a civil conversation."

Eyes locked on the blade point lingering just above Iorveth's throat, Geralt did as he was told. "Ready to lay your cards on the table then? Tell me what the hell this is all about?"

The deep, rich laugh of Letho rolled throughout the empty walls of Loc Muinne. "There comes a time in every game when a player must show their hand, and I do love that moment. But first... Vodka?"

His free hand proffered a bottle to Geralt. The white wolf shook his head, much to Letho's disappointment. 

"Not even to old friendships?"

Geralt gritted his teeth. "Not in a drinking mood when you've got friends of mine hostage, Kingslayer." There was little to bargain with, and he knew Iorveth wasn't above gambling with his own life, so Geralt had to be willing to do the same sometimes. "Let them go, and we'll drink. Not exactly an amicable ground you've set up."

Letho looked down at Iorveth and seemed genuinely surprised to find that his sword point was aiming right at Iorveth's jugular. "What, this? You can have it, man. Not gonna last long in the shape he's in any way." 

He withdrew the weapon, and Triss, bless her, made to drag the elf away. Geralt's eyes moved to Letho and did not leave him even as he gave Triss instructions to prepare a portal somewhere, anywhere, that Iorveth and she would be safe. As she moved the elf away, she muttered fervently that Letho had kept her from the Flaming Rose, had never touched her, and for Geralt to please be careful. 

Geralt took that into account, balancing that kindness against the unconscious Iorveth. "If I'm not back within the hour, go without me." 

<i>And may Iorveth forgive me if I should die</i>, he thought. 

Once the two were a safe distance away, Geralt let his body relax, if not his mind. "Have that drink now, if you don't mind."

Vodka did little to a witcher, even less if he's on edge. It might as well have been plain water for how well they loosened Geralt's tight nerves. 

Neither spoke for a good while, the sun dipping below the horizon.

"Remember how we first met? You saving me and all."

Geralt nodded and let his silence be the answer. He'd saved Letho's life, and the large witcher had owed him. That's why Geralt was not rotting to bones in a cave under some elven ruins. 

Letho continued. "Recovered your memory yet?" 

"Some. Not all." He took another swig of the vodka. "Couldn't think of a nicer way to pay me back?"

Letho shook his head. "I've taken care of two of your women. That Yennifer, a beauty, but not the survival skills the gods gave a fish. I can't fathom what you saw in her, but I suppose there's no accounting for taste."

The veneer of pleasantness could only hold so long, and Geralt scowled. "Not that I'm ungrateful, but you did a piss-poor job of taking care of my man."

Letho laughed again. "You do pick 'em with death wishes, Wolf. Your man saw fit to attack me on his lonesome. Got a good hit in, too, so he's better than either of the sorceresses in that regard." Geralt's face must've shown his surprise, for Letho continued. "Didja not know he'd set out to save the redhead for you? Never seen Iorveth do such a thing in the, admittedly, short time I've known him."

Guilt socked Geralt in the gut. While Geralt was off dealing with a reasonably amicable dragon, Iorveth was nearly getting himself turned to jam on Geralt's behalf.

All the feeling swirling within him threw Geralt into the final flashback of memory. He was at the hanging tree, bargaining for Yennifer's life. Finally, he could picture her face without a single blur. In his mind's eye she was, like Iorveth, splayed out and unconscious, at the mercy of a foe that Geralt could not fight. He'd offered himself up in exchange for what he loved, although the odds today seemed a tad fairer.

A yet less enjoyable flood of memories followed. Now he had context for the desire to burn and destroy. Everything was not clear, but he felt a twinge of terror as he remembered a voice, soft yet firm, reminding him that if he did not cooperate, they could always bring Yennifer back. The hunt forced him to commit atrocities that would rightly have gotten him destroyed as an animal, not a man—nearly all of them far worse than what he had done today.

Little of his time with the hunt came through clearly, but he did remember a few faces. Beautiful, gaunt elves sneering down at him as he destroyed life after life. In particular, one lingered- a familiar face from years past, an elf with scars lancing across his face. 

Letho brought Geralt back to reality with a sharp jab to the shoulder. Geralt shook off his haze and sat on the ground, hard, drinking the last of the vodka in one go.

He re-calibrated to reality, and as he did, Letho told Geralt the tale of how he came to be in the employ of Emyr, Emperor of Nilfgaard. Geralt heard how Yennifer nearly got Letho, and his brethren killed time and time again, how her antics and behavior eventually got them caught by his special forces (of which Geralt made note, the Squirrels would likely appreciate that information). Geralt reciprocated with what he had learned about the hunt. He did enjoy the shock on Letho's face when told the Hunt were elves from another world. On and on, they spoke, until finally the words were gone and the sun had given up her ghost entirely.

"...And so we came to Emyr's court. He offered me the ultimate payment, Geralt." Letho looked at his hand and flexed, leather glove creaking with strain. "He'd fund the re-building of the Viper school. I am one of three left, and the other two full Vipers I have not seen or heard from in years." He met Geralt's eyes again. The Wolf-witcher could have sworn he saw tears in the giant's eyes. "The heads of kings to prime the North for invasion, and in payment, I would get my legacy, my family, back." 

Geralt had no satisfactory retort here. He, Vesimir, and the other Wolf School witchers all knew that they were the final batch of witchers to come out of Kaer Moren. Vesimir had deemed the process of making a child into a witcher too cruel. Even in the beginning when Ciri was taking the initial witcher potions, before Triss stepped in, they hadn't been planning to subject the girl to the Trials. Still, there was some part of Geralt that wanted to keep the witchers of the Kaer going. He understood the pain.

Letho continued. "Meeting up with Iorveth and Sile was a beautiful coincidence. Sile ordered me to kill, which saved me the trouble of framing her, and the help of your Squirrel was invaluable."

"So why did you try to kill him?" It took monumental effort to keep his sword out of Letho's head. Witchers fighting witchers can take time, and he did not know if he had it to spare.

"Realized I couldn't manipulate him. A true fox, that one. He was so observant, so dangerous. I got the sense he might see right through me at any moment." 

Geralt had to snort. "There was your mistake. So long as you had the Scoia'tael to protect you, you were untouchable."

"Mmm, but you ruined that for me." Letho's eyes narrowed. "I failed to finish off that Cirian lad, and you used that to alert your elf to my intentions, and the squirrels ambushed me." A rictus grin spread over his face. "Even a Viper can be overwhelmed if enough rodents decide he's dangerous. Figured me letting him live this time means you owe me, and he owes me, to make sure his friends don't come after me later."

Letho continued, detailing exactly how he and the Scoia'tael worked together to kill Demavand and set their plan in motion to disguise Letho as a priest to sneak the hulking man into the castle. It was all very impressive, very well planned. He talked at length with Geralt saying very little save to ask the occasional question, which Geralt found very funny. He did not know much about the Viper School or could not recall what he did know, but they had a reputation as the sneaks and liars of the witcher clan. Somehow it was the wolves who ended up being the silent types.

An hour had not yet elapsed, not quite, by the time Letho finished. Geralt learned all he needed to, and all that was left was to decide: Walk away, or fight. Letho knew this, too. 

"I'm done talking." Geralt said slowly. 

"Wanna fight?"

Geralt shook his head, no. "My memories are finally coming back, and I know you're a friend, and I owe you. I'll walk away, and so will you."

From the direction of the city gate, Geralt thought he heard a low, pained moan. Time was running out, and quickly. "Your death won't change anything, Letho." Geralt was already moving away. "Go where you will."

The witcher broke into a run. Letho shouted at him as Geralt fled- "Just like that? No threats? Words of wisdom?" 

Geralt said nothing, and Letho laughed one more time. Triss had opened a portal, he could see, and she was ready to step into it as she saw Geralt approaching. He scooped up Iorveth from the ground gingerly. He could feel worry growing large enough to pop the strings of his witcher's heart. As he followed the red-haired sorceress through he heard, shouted just loud enough to understand, Letho's cry- "Farewell and good luck, Geralt of Rivia!" 

Iorveth hurt all over, and his face felt oddly wet. 

Wherever he was, nighttime had eaten the surrounding area. He could barely see his hand in front of his face as he raised it to see why he was so damp.

His fingers came away, slick with blood. He groped higher and higher, panic mounting, fingers prodding at the oozing remains of what was once the right side of his face. 

It was fresh again, happening again. 

Desperation seized him as the worst of it came. He couldn't remember what it felt like for the eye to push into his head and rupture, but he'd dreamt it. Impossibly, squelching noises accompanied the eye as it pushed out of his face rather than in. He tried desperately to keep it in, but nevertheless, it fell into the darkness. Iorveth knelt on the ground, groping madly in the void for the missing eye. 

"You always were one to scrabble in the dirt so."

In a moment Iorveth was back on his feet. That was not a voice he was accustomed to ignoring, nor was it one he thought he would ever hear again in this lifetime. 

The other elf looked much better than he had the last time Iorveth had seen him. Granted, that had been moments before the one-eyed elf was tossed into a ravine of corpses, and nobody looks their best in that situation. 

Isengrim, Colonel of the Vrihedd Brigade, loomed large in a decorative set of obsidian armor the likes of which Iorveth had not seen since his childhood. It brought up memories of state occasions during which his father would don a similar suit, but Isengrim's had seen more wear than Iorveth's quiet, bookish father.

Yellowed, chipped teeth gleamed in the darkness from the Iron Wolf's jagged, ragged mouth, twisting his battered face all the worse. "We match, little lordling." He closed the distance between them and ghosted his hand over Iorveth's throat, not grabbing, but promising that he could. "I think my deformity is more fetching, but I do like mended things. Lucky for you." 

Iorveth sneered at his former commanding officer and pushed him away. "Lucky? What luck could this be? None at all! I'll not have a bad dream insult me. That's what this is, isn't it?" The darkness rippled in reluctant confirmation. "Ghosts and dreams are the last thing I need. Begon, spirit. You're not needed here." 

If Iorveth had had any input, he'd have requested the Stargazing dream again. He turned his back to the other elf. Typically once he'd realized he was dreaming, provided it wasn't a war dream, he could tweak his surroundings a bit. In moments, he was sure, the literal ghost of his past would go and Iorveth would be enjoying a nice, dreamless rest.

Isengrim fulfilled his promise of a chokehold, wrapping gloved fingers around Iorveth's neck and squeezed tight enough to stifle all sound. 

"Not needed," he hissed, "not needed? You will never be anything but a creature of need, little Lordling." 

As the Iron Wolf spoke, Iorveth struggled against his grip, each breath a hellish struggle to stay conscious. His old commander was far more powerful than he ought to have been. 

"Mark me, for I am no mere nightmare." Isengrim's breath burned Iorveth's ear. "You dare to think I would ever finish with you, and you are wrong. Your life is owed me. Your heart is willed to me." 

The choking elf scrabbled against the armored one, but it was no use. Fingernails and kicks did little against the slick stone armor, and Iorveth's weakened strength was not enough to budge the hands which held him. 

"One day, I will come for thee, Iorveth Cynwrig. My masters order it, and they shall usher in a world as we all dreamed of in those days past, the days before the blood and war. There shall come a new age, a burning age, wherein the apes shall crawl before us." 

Seeing was becoming a chore for Iorveth, and he began to lose feeling in his toes. 

Isengrim leaned in and dragged his tongue over Iorveth's face, from jaw to his empty eye socket. "You wanted to be mine. One day it shall be so."

With a final squeeze, Iorveth succumbed to the darkness and dreamt of nothing more. 

  
  


Geralt rested, uneasy, on one of the ramparts of the Temple of Melitele, broodily engaging in a starring contest against a local grackle. A veil of thick malaise hung over the witcher. For the past eight days he kept vigil, refusing to leave the Iorveth's side as the elf lay comatose. Eight days without sleep and little food was taxing on even a witcher's physiology, especially after such a fight as Geralt and the dragon had waged. It had taken three sisters and Mother Nenneke's pushing to get the witcher out of Iorveth's sickroom, and nothing short of promising to find and install a cot for Geralt stir him. 

Since regaining his memories the witcher had not gotten much time to sit and think. Life had gone from one extreme to the next, from the burning of Vergen to the long days of travel during which Iorveth kept him plenty distracted, to the massacre at Loc Muinne. The third massacre at Loc Muinne, he addended, and the second mass-killing of sorcerers to which he bore witness. The witcher had horrible luck when it came to attending summits and other gatherings involving essential persons. At the last one of this size, he'd personally seen the Tower of Gulls, Tor Lara, explode into rubble as mages divided into factions and killed one another. 

A pain arched through Geralt's sinuses and into his brain. Remembering was a painful process. Nenneke had informed him that it would get easier as time went on, but healing a broken mind is not easy. "I'd imagine re-growing a brain posthumously must be difficult, even for you, Geralt." 

"I'll be sure to scold Vesimir for neglecting to send the re-birth announcements in a timely fashion. Hard to know the etiquette for something like that," he'd snarked back at her, adding another name to the mental list of people angry at him for being an amnesiac. 

Two years should not have impacted him so much. One summer should not be overshadowing and shaking off years of life experience. He recalled now the hold Yennifer had over his emotions, the sway she held over his heart. Perhaps ten years ago he had said he loved her aloud for the first time, they had made love, and then the world had literally caught fire from the nightmares of politics. 

At the time, Geralt could not have conceived of a person who could occupy so much of his heart besides the sorceress. Now he could think of nothing else as the elf edge out the sorceress.

The differences and similarities between the two mocked the witcher. Headstrong were they both. Brash, yes, and rude. Haughty as anything. The elf and the witch stood back to back in many respects, powerful and dangerous and sharp, but Yennifer was a thin stiletto blade tucked into a velvet sleeve, while Iorveth held more in common with the sharp barbed point of a Scoia'tael's arrow shot through the bracken. 

A particular quality in their eyes, too, tied them together. Both had versions of themselves they wanted to project and projected them well, half-truths designed to block out the world, but Geralt had seen the façade crack through their eyes in both of them. 

An age ago in a little inn, Geralt saw through the illusions of Yennifer and saw behind the makeup and rouge. She'd had the eyes of a woman born hunchbacked and the cruel, calculating demeanor of a girl born ugly. When he remembered this moment, he felt the pleasant warmth of nostalgia wash over him.

Months ago, in a dwarven inn, Geralt saw Iorveth's eye grow young. The calculating steel of the elf's face melted away, and Geralt could see for just a flash a vibrant youth, a beautiful elf born of privilege who saw the world as an open jewelry box to play with. Before the wars it was said that the Aen Seidhe lived for nothing more than they lived for beauty. One could see a worship of it in the architecture left behind as they fled for their lives, could hear it in the language, and the songs which were still sung. Geralt had seen that love in Iorveth as he'd played, and seen it turn back to bitterness. 

Geralt felt his chest grow tight. 

Once upon a time Geralt had enjoyed the on-again, off-again nature of his and Yennifer's relationship. They'd had their fights, and Geralt had been envious or jealous by turns of her other lovers, but he hadn't resented her for it. The same was true the men she'd slept with. It was just the way things worked, and he'd simply trusted that Yennifer would come back to him.

As an experiment, the witcher tried to imagine Iorveth with someone else. 

In his mind's eye, he saw Iorveth pressing his lips to some made-up man Geralt had conjured up, someone pretty and palatable. A visceral reaction tensed Geralt from heel to head. He lurched forward and nearly tumbled over the wall's edge, somehow trying to wrench the elf away from someone who didn't exist. Geralt's heart hammered violently as he tried to compose himself. The shock of his feelings and the intensity of his want vied for the prized place of "thing that upset Geralt the most," and both ended up on top. 

He could count on one hand the people worth becoming so enraged for, nearly all of them companions of twenty and more years. Geralt was not a young man, but he felt the urgent envy of youth screaming to claim the elf as his own forever and always. 

Perhaps more disturbing than that, Geralt couldn't force himself to want anything else.

Triss wandered the temple in a listless haze as Iorveth recovered. Each of those days Geralt spent by Iorveth's bedside weighed heavily on Triss. Geralt refused to speak to her, and the priestesses were by and large uninterested in the chestnut-haired sorceress. This gave her far too much time to think.

How well did she know this version of Geralt? 

Initially, she'd only known him through rumor as Yennifer's toy, a puppy who'd taken to the raven-haired sorceress in his own quiet way. When they'd first met, she'd found him charming, dangerous, and exciting, the way many young women think of dashing older men with big swords and stoic attitudes. Utilizing a little sex appeal and more than a bit of magic she'd enchanted him, although whatever hold Yennifer had on his heart overrode Triss's charms eventually.* 

When he'd re-entered the world after his supposed death, well, Triss was a staunch believer in fate and its strange machinations. Yennifer was dead as far as she knew, Ciri missing, and Triss had Geralt all to herself. A few words of caution to his friends about epileptic fits and the dangers of forcing memories on people who've had traumatic experiences prevented too much exposition of the past's true nature. All of the witchers at Kaer Morhen trusted her, and Geralt's friends felt that she obviously knew best when it came to matters of magical issues. Finally, she was the woman to put a proper leash on the White Wolf. 

He was so trusting now that a lifetime of pain and bitter lessons had been washed away. A bit bland, a phantom of himself, but there was enough tooth in him to be satisfying.

Of course, even that could not last forever. 

A small hope sparked in Triss when she spotted the witcher on the temple's ramparts. She approached him quickly, skirts swishing around her ankles.

"Do you remember Kaer Morhen, at the winter equinox?"

The sorceress froze at that. She hadn't expected Geralt to initiate conversation. She stammered, and he continued over her.

"I'll refresh you regardless. Of course, you'll have to forgive a poor amnesiac. I've only got so much to go on." He would not look at her, but she could hear the venom in his cold, steely voice. "You, against the wishes and wills of myself, of Vesimir, and the spirit of good caution, forced my child into a magical trance."

She remembered it all too well. The trance had been dangerous for her, but especially for Ciri. The little witcheress had been a child at the time, maybe eleven or twelve. Far too young to be channeling magical powers as great as the ones that would occasionally possess her. 

"You did not consult us. And I will grant you had been moderately helpful in the days prior, but you dared risk her life. I had to watch her convulse in a bed for hours. I cared for you as I did her. In my foolish naivete, I thought you were acting out of the goodness of your heart." Triss could hear his teeth grinding together in rage, his shoulders shaking with the strength of his grip upon the temple stones. "Even then, nearly dying, you did say something very true and helpful. I ought to have listened to you better."

He paused to compose himself.

"You were right to call yourself my mistake, Triss. A mistake you forced on me time and time again. I'm a man of my word, but this time I shall have to retract it."

Geralt turned slowly to face the sorceress.

Triss had often seen him kill monsters, but never before now had she truly known what it might be like to be on the receiving end of the witcher's blade. He looked down at her, his eyes the cold yellow of a predators'.

"You have let me down, Triss Merigold. The only reason I do not strike you where you stand is this- Ciri may still love you. Ciri, who you did not tell me of when you found me. You thought our rutting mattered more than my daughter's life, and for that, I will not forgive you. I will cultivate that lack of forgiveness."

He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "That may be uncharacteristic of me, but who's to say? You never bothered to help me find out what is and is not in character."

Geralt straightened and turned back towards the sick rooms. 

"Please, please Geralt I'm sorry, I was a f-"

"Yes. Yes, you were a fool." He whipped back towards her. "And I do not suffer fools gladly, and I do not care for your "I'm Sorry's." You proved the worth of your words when you spent them lying to me, when you refused to spend them helping me. I reject every apology you could give. I will not harm you, Merigold," he spat her name, without honorific, the way he knew she hated. "I will not touch you again for the remainder of my life if I can help it, but do not presume I will ever forgive you."

His chest heaved.

Triss tried again, her thoughts garbling. "Geralt I know I hurt you, and that's unfair, but you forgave Yen so many times, it's not fair!" she moved towards him. He did not move and she incorrectly presumed she could continue. "You remember the rest of that night. I couldn't… I can't let go of you, and I can't forget you. The magic that spoke through Ciri was honest. And I didn't want to torture you, the voice said as much, and if Ciri and Yennifer were dead, you would have been tormented." Triss reached out her delicate little hand to touch his arm. Before it could make contact he grabbed her wrist hard enough to stop, but not enough to injure. 

Geralt leaned down again as Triss tried to break away, ineffective. He hissed, inhuman, through his teeth. "You're worse than I imagined. I don't give a fuck about what you did to me, but you let Ciri wander the world alone. You didn't just let me think she was dead, didn't let me mourn, but you let me exist in a world where I didn't have her, and she didn't have me."

His grip tightened slightly. Triss could have magicked him away somehow, but the chance that the Priestesses might retaliate against such magic used on Nenneke's pet witcher prevented her. "You know you matter less to me than she does. You took her from me. For a year, you took my girl from me."

He let her go, then, allowing the sorceress to stumble backward. 

"Va'esse deireadh aep eigaen, Triss. Something is ending, and something is beginning. I have plans to make, a family to salvage, and I'm afraid you've written yourself out of this story. If Ciri wants you back in it, I will cordially tolerate you, but you have little place in the rest of my life."

Neither of them objected to his leaving this time. 

Triss was left alone on the ramparts with nothing but the company of a lone grackle and the crushing weight of regret. 

Pulling in and out with the tides of unconsciousness, Iorveth struggled and failed again and again to keep a hold of himself. After the dream, his first conscious memory was figures bustling around him and the broad back of the witcher walking away. He'd tried to say something, to reach out and demand Geralt stay, but the moment ended too fast, and he'd passed out once again.

The second time he hadn't been able to see much of anything, but he could hear the women around him gossip. It took everything in him to stay awake long enough to hear anything.

"-stayed at his bedside every moment. Nenneke had to get three, four sisters to bundle him out of the room t'other night. Says she's worried if the witchman's here for treatment it'll be too much for him should the elf, well, y'know-"

"Should 'e croak, y'mean. Aye, that worries me a might. Here, pass the burn salve to me, you're putting it on all wrong..."

His skin stung, breaking Iorveth's concentration.

When the void gave him up once again, he managed to open his eye a smidge. He was so drained and could only manage a moment, but slumped against the wall inches from him dozed Geralt, his witcher. His pulse jumped and Iorveth tried to open his mouth and say anything. Injury and lack of use had turned his tongue leaden, and just as he fell back into nothingness, Geralt stirred. Like torches, Geralt's eyes lit the way, and though Iorveth could not stay conscious, this time, he brought the memory of the witcher back down with him.

For four more days, Iorveth lay unconscious, but Nenneke and Geralt noted with varying levels of anxiety that the elf was moving more than he had been in the past week. 

"He'll wake up soon." 

Geralt said this, bluntly, to Nenneke, instead of asking, as she changed Iorveth's bandages for the second time that day. He couldn't help but stare at the burns, nasty things. Geralt hadn't ever seen burns from dragon fire, not outside of books. They were much worse than expected. Iorveth had been lucky to keep his left hand.

Nenneke didn't answer for a while. "Soon is relative, Geralt. I'm sure anything beyond an immediate, full recovery won't be "soon" as far as you're concerned." She placed Iorveth's re-bandaged hand and arm across his chest. "I'd rather he stayed under for at least a few more days. Now he's moving on his own we can at least be sure he's not going to die any time soon." 

Yesterday she'd given up trying to remove Geralt from the sickroom and resigned herself to doing most of the work of tending the elf personally. When the novices came in to change bandages and apply medicines, Geralt would just sit, staring, silently, and the aura of the room had terrified the girls right under Nenneke's skirts. 

"You ought to get some sleep, Geralt. Proper sleep- and don't tell me you haven't been dozing upright instead of having a lie-down." She gestured to the empty, obviously unused cot, a concession made to get the witcher out of the room now and again. 

Geralt had only managed to obey her instructions a handful of times. After the disastrous interaction between himself and Triss, the most he would do would be to walk out the door and lean against the wall for perhaps half of an hour before returning to his self-appointed post. 

He grunted. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

The high priestess' lips drew together in a thin, narrow line. "If you keep acting like that, then yes, that will be the next time you sleep, and it'll be soon." From some secret pocket in her voluminous skirts she pulled a small bottle that Geralt recognized immediately.

"Now you either take that, or I'll send you to town to stay at an inn, and one of us will send for you once we decide your friend is suitable to be seen. You won't do your friend any good if we've got to treat you, too."

She waited for him to say something, this man she'd known since he was a boy no taller than her belt. She'd stitched his neck together, treated breaks, burns, poisoning, exhaustion, and any other ailment possible for a witcher to retain. She hadn't been this worried about him in a long, long time.

Geralt did not respond, and so Nenneke huffed and left the room. Geralt rose on shaky legs, stiff from sitting, and limped his way to Iorveth's bedside. Against all character, Geralt heard himself speak. "Melitele. If you exist, when I wake up, he'd better be awake."

The witcher downed the bitter brew and winced. Nenneke hadn't sweetened the sleeping draught one ounce, and he couldn't entirely blame her. Geralt moved his chair to Iorveth's bedside and laid his head gently on the elf's lap, letting the elf's slow and even breaths to lull him into sleep.

His surroundings both met his expectations and violently defied them. The ceiling was made of stone like most prisons, and every inch of him hurt. Iorveth was also naked, which was not new but uncommon, but he also felt very warm and comfortable despite the ache radiating through his bones. 

Iorveth didn't get his hopes up immediately. He'd been awake before, and he'd rather not struggle and wear himself out again only to fade out again. He waited a breath, then two, three, fifteen, thirty. Each one made his ribs spasm, but he didn't pass out.

Heartened, he tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His head swam, forcing him back down onto a firm bed and soft pillow. Pain, his oldest lover, coaxed a groan out of him against his will. 

It brought a cold comfort to the elf's heart that he could still see out of his eye. Adjusting to complete blindness was one thing he would rather not do. 

A great weight across his lap drew Iorveth's attention because it was suddenly moving. He could make out nothing in the dim candlelight, nor could he move his head enough to see what had pinned him. "Where in blazes am I?" He managed, though mostly inaudible. Everything felt fuzzy.

The lump moved again, more rapidly this time, and a pale shape entered into Iorveth's field of vision. Before the elf could react, he had the wind knocked out of him, and Iorveth found himself lifted until he was upright, all of his weight resting on a strong, familiar body. 

Geralt hadn't expected his prayer that wasn't a prayer to work. Iorveth's shifting under him brought him, groggy, back to the world. Before Geralt's eyes were entirely open, the witcher wrapped him in his arms and crushed the elf against his chest. 

Geralt had spent the past four days thinking of what he needed to say and scrapping every idea. Time had come to talk to Iorveth seriously, to try and sort out sensibly what the two of them were to do. Now that the time had come to speak, he could say nothing, just cling. 

Iorveth felt the witcher take a breath, felt the witcher's chest rattle like a house shaken by a temperamental wind. 

"Don't do that to me again," Geralt mumbled into Iorveth's shoulder. "Never, you have to promise me, never." His grip was firm enough to send shoots of pain throughout the elf's body from the bruising he'd gotten at Letho's hands. 

Still groggy, Iorveth managed to mumble a noise of affirmation that, yes, he would not ever intentionally get his ass handed to him by a witcher the size of a mountain troll again. Geralt's grip relaxed slightly, but he did not let go. Idly he pondered how, even now, Iorveth managed to smell of the woodlands under all the salves and herbs the priestesses had slathered him in. 

Iorveth relaxed into the witcher. It felt good to be held, but he couldn't allow the touching reunion forever. As best he could, Iorveth pulled away from the witcher.

"Tell me what happened, Geralt."

The witcher finally let him go. Iorveth managed to slump against the plain, stiff headboard, half-sitting up as best he could. Bandages wrapped stiffly around his arms and midsection kept him from moving too much, and for that, he was grateful. Few things would be so awful as poor healing from improperly cared for injury. 

"Letho could have killed you," Geralt started. "But he didn't. I don't know what you did, but most of your left side was burned. They had to cut you out of your clothing. None of the fabric survived." 

Iorveth's jaw clenched. "Then, I suppose the bow did not survive either."

Moving quite fast for a man still suffering from severe sleep deprivation, Geralt reached under the bed to pull out a tremendously long something wrapped in sackcloth. 

"You'd suppose wrong."

How Geralt managed to sneak a weapon into the sickroom, even he was not sure. Nenneke, unbeknownst to Geralt, had allowed it, on the premise that perhaps it would be of use when the elf awoke. Without arrows and with a very injured hand, she had been reasonably sure the elf would not be able to cause much of a ruckus. 

He laid the bow across Iorveth's lap. The elf's fingers trembled as much from nervous anticipation as stiffness, caressing it as a mother might her long lost child. Here and there was a singe, but nothing to render the bow useless. In their summer together, Geralt had not been brave enough to take the bow or look at it too closely. Iorveth had been fiercely protective of it. 

At first glance, it nearly looked ridiculous, all design and no substance, but Geralt had seen it in action. He had seen something similar in the hands of an old friend, Milva. Had she lived, Geralt was sure she and Iorveth would have had lots to talk about. 

The witcher flinched. Each new remembrance hurt, and if Dandelion was as trustworthy as Geralt suspected, he had a long road of pain ahead. 

Satisfied that the bow was entirely in working order, Iorveth gestured for Geralt to continue. 

Soon enough, the elf was filled in to his satisfaction, if only just. "I'd rather not be indebted to a sorceress, but fair is fair. I failed to save her. She managed to save me. She can't be all bad, your witch." 

In a rage, Geralt lurched forward and took Iorveth's face in his hands, making the elf face him. "She is NOT my witch," he managed, before kissing Iorveth with everything he was worth. 

Twisting in the bed strained his stiff, healing skin, but he would not be kissed like a helpless maiden. Iorveth kissed back and hissed through the pain, sinking his teeth into Geralt's lip. 

Geralt moaned, wrapping his arms around Iorveth's waist and pulling him close as he dared. The elf gripped his partner's shoulder with his good hand, although his weakened muscles would not allow him to claw and tug as he usually was wont to do. 

They slotted together perfectly despite Geralt's potion-induced wooziness and Iorveth's injuries. Tongues explored mouths desperately, skin searching to memorize skin as if there was to be another stint of separation after this one. 

The witcher's senses came to him, and he pulled away, although with great reluctance. "You're hurt. I want you, so badly, but Nenneke..."

"She'd have what's left of my skin along with yours," Iorveth finished. "She's a delightful old bird, isn't she?" Iorveth leaned back into his pillows, but he did not let go of Geralt. His bandaged left hand clutched at Geralt's right, pinning it to the bed. 

Neither mentioned it, and so the hands stayed as they were. 

"How bad am I, witcher?" Iorveth recalled the handful of comatose memories. The priestesses seemed convinced he was on his deathbed, and Geralt's eyes looked so intensely sad as Iorveth caught him waking up. "You wouldn't have brought me my bow if there wasn't any chance of me using it again. You're not so tactless a person to torment me with that." Stiff fingers flexed atop Geralt's hand, and the elf flinched. He ached down to the bone. 

"It's mostly burns," the witcher admitted. "Your clothes prevented the flames from penetrating much further than the skin. Tendons and muscles are... mostly fine. They'll take some physical therapy. I think that might be why Mother Nenneke didn't remove me from the temple grounds for tucking the bow under your bed."

"Because I will have to re-train my hand." Bitter bile dripped from Iorveths' lips. "How long until the lovely ladies sequestered in this place send me to my death, witcher? How much do I have to recover before they call the local constabulary, to kill the big bad scoia'tael?" 

"Never, sir elf." 

Both men practically jumped out of their skins, particularly Geralt. Nenneke had, at some point, opened the door and had been waiting patiently to reveal herself to the witcher and elf. Geralt, rattled, could hardly believe he hadn't heard her coming or felt her disapproving gaze on his back. He really did see nothing in the world when Iorveth was present, almost like a normal human man. 

"Melitele does not discriminate in who she tends. The elves were her children long before our ancestors landed on these shores, and I suspect you were praying to her before this temple was ever erected. You've got the look about you, that haughty attitude of knowing it all." As she spoke, the little old woman shooed Geralt off her patient, beginning the process of unwrapping and re-wrapping Iorveth's bandages. 

"You're healing well. Remarkably well for only two weeks, but that's not my business. I'd say you have a month, maybe two, before your arm's back in working order. Whatever burned you was not natural, and it's only by the graces of the Goddess that you didn't lose more than just most of your flesh, and especially fortunate your brain didn't leak out that thump somebody gave you. That bone's started to knit nicely, but I can't stress how close you came to dying."

Iorveth almost managed to conceal his horror at what had become of his skin. His tattoo was patchy, now, where it had come down his arm. Most of the limb's surface was covered in angry, shiny, red skin. Mother Nenneke rubbed salve on the wounds, which caused them to itch horrifically. 

"Pity. I don't suppose you'd have ink and some needles I could borrow by any chance?" His voice came out thick and slow. Nenneke shot him a nasty look.

"No, sir. Not yet, at any rate." 

The hard look on her face softened as she met his eye, tempered with yet another loss. "Check back in after another week has passed, we'll see if it's healed enough. You'll get an infection, and I'd rather you shove needles into yourself here than elsewhere. At least I can mitigate the stupidity, though don't think I'm condoning it!"

Before he could reply, she turned on the witcher. "And you. You seem a bit rested, that's good. Now perhaps you'll listen to me and take care of yourself a bit better." She cuffed him around the ear, plunking another sleeping draught on a little table on her way out the door. As she left, she shouted over her shoulder that Iorveth should be sure to make the witcher drink that if he knew what was good for them both.

Iorveth starred at the wall, rattled. "She's certainly got a refined bedside manner, doesn't she?" 

Geralt snorted. "That's one thing you could call it, yes." 

Iorveth glanced over at the bottle of medicine she'd left. "You haven't been sleeping again. Is it the nightmares? You really can't get through a single night without me to keep you company, eh?"

He joked, but Geralt shifted uncomfortably as the truth settled in. He could have slept, yes. He could have walked away, too, gone to Kaer Morhen and started piecing his life back together. He could have done anything, gone anywhere, but instead, he stayed here for two weeks.

Waiting.

"I didn't want to leave you."

Afternoon sunlight lazily dripped through the window onto Iorveth's bedsheets. It reminded him too much of his skin, now blissfully hidden under bandages. 

"Where is the sorceress? I should like to offer her my thanks, even if she is the reason I ended up with a cracked skull." 

Geralt tensed again. "Gone, I hope. Better if she is."

When Iorveth squinted at him curiously, Geralt tried to keep his tongue still. He could not manage, and instead spilled everything. It started as a confused pile of babble and garbled words, but Iorveth managed to piece together the whole story with patience and many sharp, pointed questions designed to poke holes in Geralt's water-tight brain. 

"So you can't kill her. That's a pity. But the girl, I've heard of her. We had orders, all of us, to find the girl. I was under the impression she'd been married to Emyr and died trying to bear him children."

Geralt denied this and continued, spinning the story of Ciri for Iorveth, the Lion Cub of Cintra, who Geralt had taken in to train as a Witcher after accidentally earning her after doing a chore for the Queen of Cintra. He talked of her finding, of helping her learn the blade and the witcher's way. He spoke of discovering her innate magics and the search for a sorceress to teach his little witcheress. "Witchers may not be able to sire children, but we can certainly HAVE them. She is, entirely, my daughter. Emyr couldn't pry her out of my cold dead hands."

Yet another side to the witcher showed itself, and Iorveth fell a little more in love with him. "You make me regret never siring one of my own, Gwynbleidd. Mores the pity, I'm far too old for such things now."

The witcher grinned. "If there's anything to learn from my tale, it's that you're never too old or mutated to have children. Sometimes they just happen to you, and there's no thing you can do about it. Who knows, maybe you'll find your own horrible, ill-mannered little brat to raise. I've found it very fulfilling."

Iorveth snorted through his nose, which hurt a great deal. "Gods, can you imagine? Me, teaching a child to kill d'hoine, educating it in the finer points of guerilla warfare? Absurd."

It wasn't that absurd. He'd wondered about it himself, a century or so ago. 

Tact kept Geralt from inquiring further. Instead, he nudged Iorveth over until there was just enough space for the witcher to curl up beside him without risking further harm. Nenneke had made sure to assign the elf a bed just narrow enough to prevent Geralt sleeping next to the elf for their entire stay, but nothing could have prevented Geralt from having a bit of a snuggle now. He'd gone to long without touching Iorveth.

They had so much to talk about. They had to discuss what life held, and what tied them to each other. Iorveth stroked the witcher's head with his injured hand and starred at the ceiling. He had a letter to write. Toruviel probably thought him dead.

He had a heart to break.

  
  


*See "Blood of the Elves"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's sex in the next one I promise


	14. Tangled and Mangled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth recovers at the temple and tends to his mail while Geralt gets several talking-toos from Nenneke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO sex scenes! We haven't had one of those since chapter eight, and now you get TWO! Also, I've already started writing Chapter 15. MUAHAHAHAHA.

_ Toruviel- _

_ Tales of my death are much exaggerated, although I would prefer it if you did not inform anyone save the most necessary persons. Death stared me in the face, but as expected, she turned away first. _

_ Address your next communication to Melitele's temple in Ellander. I will update you as necessary. _

_ Cynwrig _

_ Cynwrig _

_ Pleased to hear the news. New refugees enter the city every day. I spend my days collecting stories, tending my wounds, and filling the gaps you left in command. You are far more beloved than you let me know, old fox. Thus far, the only solution I have found involves entirely removing what is left of your shriveled old soul. Should that solution be satisfactory, I have taken the liberty of sending on the formulae. _

_ Unless you write otherwise, I shall continue my search. In the interim, you ought to enjoy yourself. Perhaps satisfying your cock will finally mellow out the rest of you. _

_ Toruviel _

_ PS- Your choice of name is truly comedic.  _

Nausea churned in Iorveth's stomach as he flipped through the ratty pages Toruviel sent. Casting it would necessitate the recruitment of the most competent sorcerer possible, and even then, it carried both a substantial risk of death and failure. 

Tempted, he eyed the pages in his hand and the warm fire a priestess had built up. 

Quickly as he'd considered it, he rejected the paper's destruction and folded the pages, tucking them safely away. Now he had a second to last resort, just above the list from "one of us must die." 

He slumped back into the chair, unwilling to crawl into bed just yet. Every night he found his attempts at sleeping alone thwarted. Iorveth lay awake, flexing his hand and trying to ignore the hideous chastisement he delivered unto himself. Inevitably he would think of Isengrim, and his throat ached. He'd woken up with bruises around his throat, and while he had sustained many injuries at Loc Muinne, not a soul had gotten close enough to choke him. Only the elf of his nightmares managed that.

Night fell as Iorveth settled in, pondering the new blank spots on his skin. 

Iorveth's healing regime took most of the day, starting early at dawn and finishing just before evening. His hand needed healing and therapy, yes, but so did the breaks in his ribs, shin, and burns from ankle to hip. Geralt rose with him, ate with him, and made his way to the library once a priestess spirited the elf down to the yard for exercises.

Geralt's preferred spot became a window looking down onto the courtyard, which both had excellent lighting and provided the witcher a view of Iorveth for most of the morning and afternoon. Something about hearing the elf swear loudly every time he dropped his bow created an air of gentle calm within the witcher. 

He read books of his own exploits (primarily written by Dandelion), trying to refresh himself on what was fact and what was fiction. He remembered friends, old and dear- Regis, Cahir, and Angouleme- and rubbed his knee where he ought to have a nigh-permanent ache. The Hunt had taken so much from him, Geralt was surprised to find himself missing aches and pains. His knee giving out on him had been an inconvenience, yes, and sometimes a near-deadly one, but it was also a reminder. The witcher ought to have felt like an old man, because he was. After riding with the Hunt, he felt spry as the day he'd set out from Kaer Morhen, an odd thing to begrudge, but he managed.

In the evenings, he and Iorveth tried to pass their time as they had in Vergen. Geralt brought books to read aloud, or Iorveth groused about his aches and pains. 

They touched each other in the night. Geralt couldn't help but be gentle with Iorveth. Every flinch or hiss sent the witcher jerking away, always avoiding whatever it was he'd done for the foreseeable future no matter how Iorveth assured him that nothing was wrong. That Iorveth was clearly, constantly exhausted did not help a bit, nor did Nenneke's constant demand that Geralt take his medicine and get a good nights rest. They would kiss, and touch, and inevitably end up tangled together in sleep. 

A distance grew between them. Geralt could not help himself when the elf was present. Whatever urges egged him on to seek out his past dulled and quieted in his presence. Geralt could think calmy- perhaps too calmy- and contented himself with waiting things out and recovering himself. 

Sitting by the window day in and day out performed similarly, but once Nenneke cleared, nay, demanded his sword exercises, Geralt's resolve faltered. 

Any time he liked the temple gates were open. Nenneke could undoubtedly tell him to stay, but she couldn't subdue him with physical force. Still, his heart compelled him to stay. 

Girls whispered behind their hands when he passed by, most looking at him with a distant longing and shaking their heads. They could sense something, too, and for perhaps the first time, not a single priestess attempted to bed the witcher. He suspected Mother Nenneke had something to do with this. Maybe she was trying to keep the temple sheets clean.

Geralt had avoided the High Priestess for most of his stay, yet another change in behavior he did not enjoy, but she was yet another part of his past he wasn't ready to face head-on. Not now. 

Nenneke gave him no choice and, while he was relaxing post-practice in his quiet window seat, she cornered him.

The little old woman held a box in her hands as she loomed over him.

"You're brooding, Geralt."

He looked up from his book entitled "Journey to the end of the world".

"Not brooding. Resting. I would've thought that might please you, Mother."

She wrinkled her nose at him and set the box on the window sill. "Sitting and avoiding your life is not healing. You ought to be dead, witcher, and you falling out of a portal, into my temple with a very dangerous Scoia'tael raises a few questions." Her hands found her hips as she glowered. "We mourned you, Geralt. I mourned a boy and a man I've spent the better part of my life patching up and sending back out into the world, time and again, being killed with a bloody pitchfork." 

"Would you prefer I'd died some other way? I'll make a note to pass away at your preference instead. I do apologize for not avoiding the reaper in the correct way." He kept his tone calm and even, which angered Nenneke more.

"Don't you act like that with me, boy. Don't you dare." She collapsed onto a chair across from him, and Geralt was aware of how frail she looked. Priestesses rarely got as old as Nenneke, but few were also in the game of health brought on by herbs and salves made from practically mythical ingredients. Still, she was not a sorceress, and did not have the methods of nigh-eternal youth that most did. 

"I'm sorry," he tried, lamely. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I could do. I won't blame fate, or circumstance, but we all have to die some time. You'd seen my future long ago, and we both knew that was how I was meant to end my life. Blood, guts, dirt. You don't need me to remind you, your priestess had a stroke after what she saw."

Nenneke nodded. "Yes, I do. But she didn't foresee you coming  _ back _ . That's the sort of thing which ought to come up during a vision, isn't it? And she especially didn't see that." She jerked her head towards the window as Iorveth swore in elvish. 

Geralt couldn't help but smile a little and tried to erase the expression before Nenneke saw, feigning a cough. "Who could have, really. I'm not sure Iorveth is the sort of person who prophecy can predict." 

His feint did not fool the priestess. "You don't get to be my age without picking up a few things about people. You radiate shame, hiding in corners."

This he could not deny. She continued. "I tolerated Yennefer living here. I can tolerate an elf you're bedding as well. Besides, he's been surprisingly polite. Perhaps that's because he's quiet, but it's better than spewing insults at every opportunity."

"No, no, that's not why." 

Nenneke settled into the seat. She wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon. "Humor an old woman. I believe you owe me that much. If it isn't us, then what?"

He waited and thought. After a fashion, he did know, but he hadn't tried to put it into words. Slowly, with the tone of a shamed child admitting a sin to his mother, he tried to explain. "I shouldn't be here. There are things I ought to be doing. Need to be doing. I don't know where Ciri is. I don't know where Yennefer is, either. Everything's been lost, and I shouldn't want to stay. It's foolish, and I'm wasting time."

The priestess nodded. "And yet you stay. I ought to be grateful to the elf. He's done a better job keeping you nailed down and resting than I ever managed too. You're chomping at the bit internally instead of externally. Don't pretend you weren't hurt, too, we had to slip your arm back into the socket, and you barely noticed."

He startled. Had they treated him? When they arrived, he'd been too preoccupied with Iorveth to care about what anyone did to his body. There was a vague recollection of being undressed, some bandaging during the week, and more of sleeplessness. He'd assumed the catch in his arm when it moved was an injury he'd sustained at some other point in time. 

"There, see? Don't pretend I didn't see that. I've not gone blind yet. He does something to you, and I'm sick of you pretending. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say he makes you happy."

The witcher swallowed a lump in his throat. "Is that a good enough reason to betray them all, then? Let my child and my... And Yennefer fall to the wayside so I can be happy?"

She shrugged one of her bony little shoulders. "Who's to say you're betraying anyone? Why do you think enjoying yourself is something to be avoided at all costs? That's a different man than I ever knew. You're hard to take away from your work, you help people first, but what good are you if you can't find a little slice of joy somewhere?" She sighed and shifted a little, bones creaking. "Yennefer is a capable woman, and if she taught your Cirilla anything of value, it was a similar capability. I can't promise she'll be fine, but she's a grown woman now. You can search for her, but things have changed since you... went away."

"Died, Mother. I died. We don't need to be euphemistic about it."

His words hung in the air like a guillotine. 

"Yes. You did. And aren't the dead owed some rest? Why not enjoy it while it lasts." 

She held out her hands. "Here, help an old woman get to her feet, would you?"

Geralt obliged, steadying her as she rose. "Take that box to your man. He's well enough to start jabbing himself, and I've made sure everything's perfectly clean and sterile. Don't let him get too enthusiastic. I won't have you two re-damaging anything under this roof."

"Of course, Mother Nenneke." 

She sniffed and nodded again, making her way towards the door.

"Nenneke!" he called, perhaps a little too loudly. She paused, turning her head just a bit over her shoulder.

"... Thank you."

The priestess smiled, satisfied. "Of course. Happy to help a fool with his burden."

Geralt watched her shuffle out of the library, clutching the little box in his hands and pondering what she said. 

"Enjoy it while it lasts". 

Darkness had already fallen when Geralt made it back to the room. The wooden box ought to have grown clammy in his grip, and he almost wished it had. That would be some physical evidence of his anxiety. 

Eventually, he found the courage to open the door. Iorveth sat by the fire, eyes fixed on his arm. The room had a gentle glow to it from the warm fire, and a torch just outside the window cast strange shadows on the floor. 

"Just for now," Geralt thought, "I'll be happy. We can discuss things when he's better. I'll make a plan, go to Vesemir, rehabilitate. I'll do that once I know he's well, and I know where he's going."

He approached Iorveth and sat himself on the stone floor, letting the warmth radiate up into his muscles. 

"Rough day?"

Iorveth sighed, right elbow propped up on the chair's arm, eye shut, hand cupping his face. "I haven't shot so poorly since childhood." He flexed the injured hand. "It's humiliating. The girls are polite about it. They've no idea who I am, thank the gods, or there would be more mockery and less polite encouragement." 

Iorveth wore fewer and fewer bandages, exposing progressively more angry, healing skin. Under Iorveth's shirt-sleeve he could see the faded, mangled ink marred with scars. His skin would be discolored for-ever. Geralt's heart writhed in his throat.

"Nenneke sent you this."

Finally, Iorveth looked at him. He took the box without much interest, casually flipping the lid off. 

Suddenly the air in the room changed. Iorveth sprang to his feet, dashing to grab the little table and drag it over to the fire. Geralt watched his excitement and pondered what could be so important. The answer wasn't long in coming as Iorveth pulled out a long, thin needle and a small bottle of midnight ink. 

"Bless that old bat," he muttered, flexing his fingers in anticipation. He looked over the arm with childish delight, unsure where to start. "What do you think, witcher? Refresh what's there, or start new?" 

Geralt goggled at him. "... I suppose it would be easier to touch up something that's still there, wouldn't it? For frame of reference?"

The elf nodded eagerly and jabbed the needle into his skin without a flinch or complaint. "You don't think you'll miss the process, but you really do," he said, more to himself than Geralt. 

Iorveth didn't say anything for a while, nor did the witcher. He watched the process, Iorveth's almost mechanical stab-and-dip, over pre-existing lines to darken them. No witchers he knew had tattoos, and since his youth, Geralt had a passing fascination with the idea. He didn't even know if witchers could get tattoos, or if their potions and healing would just heal the skin over and absorb the ink.

He'd never really felt the need to find out until now. Envy coiled in Geralt's stomach- Iorveth ought to look at him like that. He'd take any number of little jabs to have the elf's full attention for even a moment, and he'd have said so!

But Iorveth was so blissfully lost in his work. Geralt's need to please the elf outweighed his desire, for the time being. 

Iorveth dipped his needle in the ink, carefully coating it, before jamming one into his flesh. He'd made some decent progress on a flower, which Geralt remembered as far less elaborate. Suddenly the arm receiving decoration started shaking, and Iorveth swore, flinging the needle on the table.

"Making progress?"

"Fuck all! I might as well cut the damn thing off for how much good its doing me." He slumped backward and slammed his good hand on the little table. It rattled, nearly spilling ink all over the floor. 

Geralt shifted closer, twisting to his knees for a better look. Iorveth had managed to tattoo about three inches of skin, much of it now red and irritated. 

"Got something for that? Mother Nenneke'll have my hide if you don't care for yourself properly." 

The elf sighed, and nodded. "In the box. Here." He extracted a jar filled with yellow-white cream. Geralt plucked it from his fingers.

"Let me."

Iorveth starred at him, ready to say no and hiss that he'd had enough taking care of, thank you very much. Instead, he nodded his consent. 

Without reply, Geralt scooped some of the salve onto his fingers. It wasn't quite as creamy as it had looked in the jar, not unlike bee's wax in texture. Iorveth watched him delicately massage the skin. 

"A little harder, if you please," he murmured. "You've got to work it in."

Geralt complied, using his free hand to grip Iorveth's wrist and keep the elf steady. Sparks shuddered up Iorveth's veins. 

The witcher marveled at the delicate tendons and tight muscles in the elf's wrists. He hadn't taken the time to appreciate how strong the elf must be, how powerful his arms and wrists were to pull a bow.

"Stop."

Geralt pulled away immediately, only to find Iorveth's hand had twisted to grab his wrist. The witcher could have pulled away, but the risk of injuring the elf was too high.

Iorveth reached over with his good hand and hooked his finger under the witcher's chin, tilting his head up. He leaned down, pressing a hungry kiss to Geralt's mouth. Iorveth was tired of being coddled and waited on. For this moment, just a moment, he needed to feel power and control. 

Geralt let Iorveth pull him close, listening for hisses of pain, feeling for a flinch, finding none. Iorveth growled quietly and broke the kiss, nipping at the witcher's jaw. Geralt couldn't dampen the moan Iorveth coaxed from his throat, involuntarily leaning in for more. His free hand found the elf's shoulder, pulling him closer. 

"I missed this," Iorveth whispered, sharp eyetooth catching the lobe of Geralt's ear. "I missed your taste." 

He continued his journey further, not sucking or biting hard enough to leave evidence for tomorrow. Geralt balled his fist up in Iorveth's shirt and whined for more. 

Iorveth laughed. "Can't have Mother scold us for our fun, can we?" he paused, looking for something. "There we are."

The elf nosed at Geralt's undone hair until he found a satisfactory spot, a place easily hidden from prying eyes. He nuzzled it, ran his tongue over it, waited until Geralt practically begged him, and finally sank his teeth into his witcher. 

Geralt felt like he was being eaten alive. His very soul vibrated, screaming to be devoured by this wild fox of a man. Iorveth bit, suckled, and bruised to his heart's content. He only pulled away once bending forward caused his ribs to ache, and his hand shook from gripping Geralt's wrist so tightly. 

With a pop, he removed himself to inspect his work. "Were you any other man, that would mark you as mine for a month. Alas, it will need refreshing." He snapped his teeth playfully, slouching back into the chair.

An urge seized the witcher. He grabbed the elf's knees, pushing them apart. "Shift a little bit."

Iorveth narrowed his eye as if to ask "what are you up to?", but complied, spreading his legs obligingly. 

Geralt thanked the anonymous priestess for lighting the fire, hiding his face in shadow as he turned his back to it. His practical, older self did not want Iorveth to see the devotion, the want, that shone in his eyes as he looked up at the elf. 

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Geralt understood faith.

Iorveth loomed over him. His disheveled dark hair framed him almost halo-like. Geralt ran his hands up Iorveth's hips to his stomach, pushing his shirt up until Iorveth finished removing it himself with a nasty smirk.

His burned scars arched up his leg, over his thigh, and onto his stomach. Iorveths' hip tattoos had been burned away just as badly as the ones on his arm, but much of the tree remained on his sides and shoulder. 

"What can you be looking at, Gwynbleidd?"

"You. Just you."

Iorveth tried to swallow his heart again, and failed. Geralt dragged his nails gently down Iorveths' stomach, then back up, savoring how the elf's muscles twitched and flexed under him. 

Eventually, want overcame him, and Geralt turned his attention to Iorveth's trousers. 

Simple trews, tied at the waist with a strip of leather, were no match for Geralt. He performed a move he'd once seen and deeply appreciated, snagging the tie and pulling it loose with his teeth. Iorveth's breath caught, and Geralt nudged his protruding bulge with his face. 

Iorveth lifted his hips, allowing Geralt to correctly interpret the action and pull Iorveth's trousers down enough to let his cock bob free. 

Technically, Geralt's previous assumptions had been correct- he'd never sucked a man's cock before. 

He had, however, definitely sucked off a dragon.

Geralt thumbed at the head of Iorveths' member, wondering how he'd managed to fit it inside him. He planned on finding out again eventually. 

He leaned in, running his tongue in long, lazy strokes along the elf. He didn't rush, absolutely savoring every shiver and quiet gasp he could coax from Iorveth. 

Geralt felt in control and subservient, a delicious dichotomy. Iorveth allowed him to work upwards, the witcher eventually deigning to suckle the head of Iorveth's cock. 

"Fuck, Geralt, don't tease me," he whispered, head tilting back as he tangled his fingers in the witcher's hair, gripped tight as he dared. He didn't miss the witcher's shiver as his name rolled off of Iorveth's lips. "You look so good on your knees,  _ Geralt _ . I ought to get you there more often." 

The witcher obligingly bobbed his head further, with a little encouragement from Iorveth pushing him down. Geralt's hands wandered upwards to grip the elf's waist, seeking both purchase to balance, and any opportunity he could find to touch more of Iorveth's skin. 

Now he had all of Iorveths' attention. His yellow eye met the elf's green one as he pushed further down, then pulled up, not quite letting the cock fall out of his mouth, before slowly moving back down. 

Iorveth bucked his hips upwards, pushing the witcher's head encouragingly with each torturous journey downwards. 

Geralt wasn't struggling, per se. Tomorrow morning a bit of him would be a bit horrified to recall how pleasurable it felt every time Iorveth made him gag, how good it felt when Iorveth said his name and pushed him just a little farther than he was comfortable.

He'd hate how much he wanted to practice until he could take the elf easily, any time, any day. Work until there was nobody Iorveth thought of but him when he came.

Geralt lost himself in the rhythm of Iorveth's thrusts and his own calculated movement. Victory swelled in his heart as he felt his lips touch skin. It fascinated him to see Iorveth's muscles ripple, the way his shoulders clenched every time Geralt dragged his tongue along the underside of Iorveth's cock when he pulled up sucked as he went down. 

Iorveth began whispering in the language of Elves. Geralt couldn't quite make out everything, but what he did hear thrilled him to his core. "Decadent thing... Vile wolf... Darling...", insults and flattery rippled together with Geralt's name, becoming more unintelligible the more Geralt sucked. Eventually, all the elf could manage was the witcher's name, gripping the White Wolf's hair so hard his knuckles went white, and his shoulders shook.

"His hip muscles tense when he's cumming," Geralt thought, as he tasted Iorveth's warm seed at the back of his throat. Geralt plunged down one final time, letting Iorveth spend while entirely inside him. 

Geralt sat back on his heels, feeling very pleased with himself. Iorveth wasn't looking at him yet, but the gentle pink flush on his chest let the witcher know he'd done a smashing job. 

"Geralt, you are a monster." He lifted his head and smiled, glittering eye saying everything Iorveth could not, his smile soft and tired. "Take me to bed."

"Happily."

"Well, he's certainly got new spirit in him."

Geralt snorted into his mug of beer. Nenneke had demanded that Geralt join her for luncheon, conveniently located on the lawn near the chickens, and Iorveth's training ground.

That "New Spirit" could have been due to Iorveth's gradually expanding tattoo, which he worked on every evening until the ache forced him to stop. It could be his therapy's progress, finally allowing his hand to grip a bow and arrow well enough to fire accurate shots.

Geralt suspected the mighty change in attitude had something to do with the nightly attentions the witcher had been paying him. 

"Yes. He's very... vigorous."

Geralt tried to be sly in his reply, but failed utterly. 

"I could ask you to be a little quieter, but Melitele blessed me with the foresight to put you in rooms far away from anyone else. Not that the temple's been too busy lately. Expectant mothers and veterans, mostly. The war has calmed down since you were last present in the world."

Nenneke carried on about temple life and the day to day business of being the best medical care for miles, but Geralt accidentally tuned her out.

Whether Iorveth always did his therapy shirtless or not, Geralt did not know, but he liked to think the elf was giving Geralt a bit of a show. The late summer sun beat down on his sweating chest, making him shine just slightly. Geralt licked his lips, and his fingertips tingled when Iorveth turned to make eye contact with him. 

"... This is why this particular species of nettle is particularly good for the treatment of piles," Nenneke finished. Geralt could tell she wanted a reaction, so he mumbled something that could have been agreeing or disagreeing. 

"Besotted like a schoolboy. Tsk, it's unbecoming." The old priestess thumped him on the shoulder. Her tone grew heavy. "It's good to see you enjoying something, for a change."

"But?"

"But of some concern. Sudden changes after near-death experiences can be the result of severe head trauma, or perhaps some other underlying issue you've not yet discovered."

Geralt shook his head. "It's not that." He looked at her askance. "A succubus told me I have very intense feelings for him. Can't say that's not true."

"Hm. Succubi are such trustworthy sources of information. Do you agree with her very professional assessment?"

He nodded once. "I certainly feel something. I'm not entirely ready to see what that something is, so you'll forgive me for not being more forthright." He sighed and took another drink from his cup.

"And Yennefer?"

Geralt didn't snort into his beer this time. "I can honestly say I don't know. She's important to me, still. That can't be denied. But how she is important might be something other than what I thought."

He'd told her he loved her, once. Thought it at her hundreds of times. And that was true, but the nature of that love paled in comparison to this thing he did not want to give a name. Before he'd remembered, Geralt would have been happy to shout his emotions from the rooftops, grab Iorveth by the shoulders and profess his feelings against the elf's lips again and again like a sermon. Now too much rode on what the witcher said, and how, and how carefully.

"May I give you some advice from an old woman?"

"Can I stop you from giving it?"

She laughed, long and loud. "I suppose you could, but I doubt you'd try." Nenneke leaned back in her rattan chair, watching clouds. "Don't give up a good thing when you've found it. You've done that too many times, and it's frankly surprising the lesson has yet to set in. You gave your child up and eventually died for it. May I suggest, instead, taking your happiness with you?"

Iorveth was making his way towards them, a smile in his eye and neutral frown on his face. Geralt could tell by a particular twinkle, the same one he'd seen after kissing the elf. 

"I'll consider it."

_ Toruviel _

_ Unwilling to perform suggested procedures, but I will bear it in mind for the future. Please try to find less violent measures for fixing the problem. At the same location, will send a letter when well enough to travel. _

_ Cynwrig _

_ Cynwrig, _

_ Pickiness was always your worst trait. If you will not take practical advice, there is not much more I can offer. _

_ The city is beginning to look like home. Our little slum is filling with builders and masons, some dwarvish, mostly elves, and the occasional dh'oine who thinks he knows better than we do. An odd woman passed through who I took a great dislike to. I think you would have absolutely hated her. _

_ There is talk of one like my mother coming here soon. Should the rumors be true, I may have something for you upon the delivery of your next letter. _

_ Toruviel _

_ PS- It has been suggested that a holiday be named after you. I am staunchly opposed, as I hope you would also be. _

Tension returned to the little room.

Iorveth was to leave the temple, go his own way into the world and rejoin society. Neither Iorveth nor Geralt was ready to say goodbye. 

"Who've you been writing to?"

Geralt meant to ask something else, maybe inquire whether Iorveth was making travel plans, had somewhere to go. Whether or not he had plans that could be easily broken. 

"An old friend of mine, back in Vergen. She's been keeping me abreast of the news. Things seem to be going well, no major invasions or problems that she saw fit to mention."

Geralt grunted. "I suppose it's safe enough to go back, then."

An icy silence penetrated the room. 

"Should that be necessary, I suppose so. It hadn't featured in my plans."

More quiet. Iorveth leaned against the wall, staring out the window. Geralt sat in the chair, watching Iorveth. 

"I have a proposition for you."

The elf didn't reply.

"It would be in my best interests, at the moment, to return to Kaer Morhen. It's the-"

"Yes, the witcher's stronghold, I'm aware. Not very welcoming of strangers, I suppose." A solution for Iorveth's difficulties presented itself unbidden. If the witcher organically found a way to separate them long enough for Iorveth to find a solution for their mutual affliction. He'd be free to do his own research, then.

Geralt rolled the words around in his mouth as if tasting them. "If the stranger wasn't coming home with one of their own, no, I suppose they wouldn't be very friendly. My brother-witchers aren't the most sociable of people, but it's summer. Only Vesimir should be there, now, and he'd be happy for the company. For a while. It gets lonely there, during the summer."

He finished quietly, anticipating an interruption from Iorveth, waiting for the elf to scoff and deride him. He braced for the blow that would shatter his heart.

It didn't come.

The look on Iorveth's face was inscrutable. He turned to look at Geralt and sighed. "You almost asked nicely, so I suppose it would be unkind of me to deny you. I haven't got anywhere else to go, and laying low would confirm the rumors of my death beautifully." Iorveth strode over to the witcher, laying a hand heavily on his shoulder. 

"Before we go, I do believe we ought to violate the room one more time. I think they even set out fresh sheets in the hope that we wouldn't."

He sank down to his knees, parting Geralt's as the witcher had parted his so many nights ago. "You've been quite kind to me, and I think it's my turn to do you the same good turn."

The witcher didn't give Iorveth the chance to pay him back precisely in kind. He bent down, pulling Iorveth up and smothering his face with a kiss. 

Working with surprises was what made Iorveth a good, nay, great, member of the Scoia'tael. In a flash, he'd shoved Geralt back into the chair and straddled him very prettily. Geralt gasped, but adapted just as well as Iorveth, wrapping his arm around the elf's waist and moving to grope his firm, tight ass. Iorveth ground his hips forward, delighted to find Geralt already hard. 

"You're too easy, witcher," he gasped. Geralt grinned nastily at him in return, thumbing the tip of his pointed ear. 

"No easier than you, elf."

Iorveth was grateful, not for the first time, for the practice he'd had dressing and undressing quickly. There was no awkward fumble when he undid the witcher's trousers, made slightly more difficult due to Geralt's refusal to stop touching him. The elf hissed when Geralt gripped at his arm, still tender from the tattoos. Geralt didn't freeze or pull away this time but gripped Iorveth even tighter. 

The man could learn.

Iorveth reached up the witcher's shirt and dragged his nails hard across the scars and skin, leaving angry red welts. Geralt arched his back and cried out softly. 

Iorveth clapped his free hand over Geralt's mouth. "Shhh, pet. The novices will hear, and you'll be out on your ear." He did not remove the hand and relished the vibrations of the witcher's now-muted voice against his flesh. 

He ground forward again, Geralt's free cock rubbing against Iorveth's still covered one. He had no intention of getting himself off today- Geralt had done enough pleasuring for the both of them. It was high time Iorveth returned the favor.

Deft fingers teased Geralt's cock free. "Should be a good test of how well these women do their work. Let's see if I can still make you squirm." He squeezed the witcher's member tight until Geralt groaned underneath him. The witcher reacted less severely than Iorveth liked, and he continued to play a game of "make the Witcher react to anything."

Today's experiment was overstimulation. 

Iorveth slipped down, catching one of the witcher's nipples in his teeth as he shoved two fingers into Geralt's mouth. "To keep you quiet. I know you're happiest with something to keep your mouth busy."

Geralt glared at him, but happily occupied himself with Iorveth's digits. Iorveth started to pump him rapidly, keeping time with his fingers thrusting in the witcher's mouth, keeping a firm and even suction on his nipples. Whenever possible, Iorveth bit him, searching for the most sensitive parts of the witcher to play with. He discovered a scar running near the sensitive, pale nubs evoked nothing short of a shout when he caught it with his teeth and immediately proceeded to run his tongue over the areola. This worked particularly well if he circled his fingers around Geralt's cock, using as little of his hand as possible to work the witcher's shaft up and down, slick with precum. 

To his credit, Geralt did try to take part as more than one being acted upon, but Iorveth didn't let him do more than grope at the elf's ass and moan. 

Geralt came quickly, spilling over Iorveth's knucks as he moaned the elf's name, mangled, over strong fingers hooked in his mouth. 

Iorveth did not let up the pace. Geralt did not seem to tire, but Iorveth drove him over the edge two, three, four more times until the witcher's thighs shook, and he came dry. 

Iorveth pulled back and undid his trousers. Loath to admit defeat in a contest Geralt did not even know he'd been taking part in, Iorveth needed to cum, too. All the witcher's wriggling had brought Iorveth close to finishing, so much so that he barely touched himself to spend on Geralt's stomach. 

They looked at each other, three hazy eyes, two tired bodies, and two aching hearts expressing with their bodies what out to be coming out of their mouths. It felt like years, those seconds with Iorveth straddling the witcher, shuddering, looming above once again. 

The pose said "You've been privilaged". It said "I have allowed you to touch me, but I am in charge. I am the ruler." It stated "You are beneath me."

The wolf inside Geralt rose to the threat. One day the witcher would eat Iorveth alive. 


	15. The Harm in Helping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal thoughts, Suicidal Ideation  
> Iorveth and Geralt learn more about each other. Fits are thrown, bad advice is taken, and things get frosty before heating up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE SEX FOR Y'ALL!  
> This chapter was supposed to be 7k words.  
> it's 11.75k.  
> my hands hurt.

"I ought to expect weird strays from you now." 

Geralt grunted. Vesimir always found work to do, reliably as clockwork. The two witchers sat in one of the derelict courtyards, sorting weaponry by salvegability. Menial work that barely needed doing, but it was something TO do. 

"Least you've brought in one who's got some practical skills. Hadn't had good venison in a while, too busy." 

Last night's dinner had been good, if extremely quiet. As had become habit, Iorveth had left without a word and returned just at sunset, barely an hour after leaving, with the evening's game. There'd been too much for three people to consume, so Iorveth was spending the day curing meat and preparing the hide for tanning, organs for bow-making. Vesimir hadn't discussed or questioned where the elf planned to sleep, so his quiet ascent to one of the few good rooms at Kaer Morhen required no permission.

"How did you get to know such an elf?"

No reply. Metal clanked, and leather rustled as the men continued to work in silence. 

"Did a cat snap and eat your tongue, boy? Speak!"

Geralt flung an old bracer at the ground. "I'm helping a friend, and that's all you need to know about it. I need him here."

Vesimir eyed his former student. "No need to be tetchy. It's just puzzling, is all. Usually, you only bring home people you're adopting or fucking, and he seems a bit old to learn the ways of witchers, so a man's got to make some assumptions."

Geralt ground his teeth. "I don't want to talk about it."

Geralt suspected he was mistaken in bringing Iorveth with him. The trek had been pleasant, but the closer Kaer Morhen got, the more unease settled around Geralt. 

Now they were actually in the keep, where memories slammed into him left and right, he questioned the invitation more and more. Everywhere he looked, he saw Ciri. She'd been so small, she'd bruised so easily, yet enthusiasm poured from every pore of her being. The child often complained, yes, and snapped at them, but it was with a student's petulance. She'd been frustrated because she was  _ learning _ .

He paused at the door to her room. Triss had insisted the child take down the rat skin, but Ciri staunchly refused. It was her first kill, and she'd been proud to make it. Geralt looked at the pelt, inexpertly skinned, and guilt loomed over his shoulder again. 

Vesimir found him starring at the door and guided him away from it gently. He'd been back at the keep for all of two hours, and already his memories had paralyzed him. The three ate venison in silence.

Laying second-best bed in Kaer Morhen, Geralt watched the ceiling while Iorveth worked on his tattoo. 

"I failed her."

The elf's ear pricked up. He placed his needle carefully on the table. "Tell me."

"Ciri. If there is any pattern in her life, it is me failing her. I tried to abandon her out of Brokiloen. I didn't find her quickly enough- she suffered so much after the war in Cintra. I didn't keep her safe at Thanedd-"

"So you were the witcher everyone was so distressed over."

He stiffened and turned his head to meet Iorveth's unblinking gaze. "What?"

"At Thanedd. You killed several of Isengrim's men. The Nilfgardians sent us after you particularly, they were very vexed we couldn't bring you in."

It hadn't occurred to Geralt that Iorveth would have actually participated in that bit of Nilfgard's plans. He said so.

"Oh, yes. You can assume if that piss-poor government assigned Isengrim somewhere, I was right behind him." Idly, his fingers skimmed the surface of his facial scars. "At least until the end. I'dve rather been behind him then. My face might've survived the dh'oine's delightful cosmetic alteration." 

Corpses dangling from trees. Villages burned to rubble. Bodies found buried up to their necks in anthills, covered in syrup, and left to die. All these things and more Geralt had seen, trekking in the wake of the Nilfgardian armies. How much of that had Iorveth been responsible for? 

"Did you hunt her?"

Iorveth didn't react to the question externally, but Geralt heard him stop breathing just too long.

"What would you do if I said yes?"

Geralt didn't reply. Instead, rose and left the room. Iorveth sighed, and began putting ink to paper.

_ Toruviel _

_ Have arrived at my destination. Staying with an acquaintance. Issue may be improving on its own. _

_ Cynwrig _

Iorveth was up to his arms in deergut, singing to himself as he worked.

" _ See the soldiers all dressed in red _

_ O lin de lin da lan de lin da la la _

_ See the soldiers, all dressed in red _

_ But look, the priests are in black. _ "

The kitchens of Kaer Morhen- the actual kitchens, not a pot hanging over a fire- were both horrifically unused and far away from any of the yards, encasing the elf in stone walls.

" _ The very best soldier of them all _

_ O lin de lin da lan de lin da la _

_ The best soldier of them all _

_ His name, I think, is wisdom." _

It was better than working in the woods. He'd been at Kaer Morhen for days, now, and the kitchens quickly became his domain. 

" _ If I die before the battle _

_ O lin de lin da lan de lin da la _

_ If I die before the battle _

_ Burry me in Brissac." _

When was the last time he'd been able to work, unhindered, somewhere technically safe? At least a century ago, maybe more. 

" _ In the graveyard of Brissac _

_ O lin de lin da lan de lin da la _

_ In the graveyard of Brissac _

_ Plant a fir tree over me." _

He sang a little louder. He wasn't in the woods any longer, there was no one to stifle his song or reward him with an arrow to the back while he worked. Elvish music rang from his throat and over stone, a magic flying through the air with it that only comes when these people choose to make song.

" _ But, this year, the tree was felled _

_ O lin de lin da lan de lin da la _

_ But this year, the tree was felled _

_ The brave soldier is no more." _

"Haven't heard that song since the reign of Radovid the Third." 

Iorveth did not turn around, but he did go quiet. How long Vesemir had been standing there, Iorveth did not know, nor did he care to ask. "That is, perhaps, because many of the bards who knew it were killed not long after. It wasn't very popular." 

"There's another verse left, if memory serves."

Iorveth continued working, but sang the last verse in reply.

" _ And so we began to dig _

_ O lin de lin da lan de lin da la _

_ And so we began to dig _

_ And the elves all set to weeping." _

The last word hung heavy. Iorveth heard Vesemir's leathers creak as the old man shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Hope I'm not intruding. Sorting all that armor starts to play havoc with the joints. I think Geralt will do fine on his own." Vesimir peered over his shoulder. "Good technique. Who taught you that?"

The elf lifted the gut out of the water, now clean of fat and contaminants, and laid it out on the kitchen's table. "My mother. She was a spectacular bowmistress."

"Know anything else about bows?"

Iorveth took a small penknife and slit the gut open with deft, even strokes. It gleamed white against the dark-stained table. "I'd say I'm no expert, but that would be a lie. I can make them, clean them, repair them, in any environment you'd like." Soon he was braiding the cut gut, fingers flying. "I can make and fletch arrows, as well, although if you want a head of metal, there are better folks than I. Never was as good a smith as my sisters." 

"So if I were to point you towards a rack of bows..."

"The one just shy of your drawbridge, or the bowslit on the second floor? Regardless, I'd be more than happy to have a look."

Finally, he looked up at Vesimir. The old witcher nearly flinched to see the elf's empty eye socket. "I don't like to feel useless. Have you got somewhere I can put tension on this, once it's done?"

Vesimir flashed a jovial smile at the elf. "'Course. Shove over; I'll help. You're technically a guest, and it'd be impolite of me to give you work without helping." 

Surprise widened the elf's eye, but he did as the old witcher said and made space. 

Vesimir observed the pattern Iorveth wove, noting the slight hitch in his left hand every few inches. "He's good, but I'll wager I'm better," he thought, cracking his knuckles and setting too. 

No eyes deviated from the work, the only sound a damp swish and the creak of chairs, or a mouse skittering by in the rafters, and Iorveth's barely audible humming.

Once Vesimir had finished his future bowstring, he felt rather accomplished. The feeling built when he noticed the elf had another foot of braiding left to do- and Vesimir's ego took a steep dive once he saw the length of gut braided and coiled at the elf's feet, which had not been there before.

"And so the young must overtake the old, and the old must accept it," he muttered under his breath. "Good work, lad."

"So age bows to youth, and age must accept it with grace."

Vesimir blinked in confusion. "Pardon?"

Iorveth's work didn't falter. "Lebioda. He said, "So age bows to youth, and age must accept it with grace." Rather clumsier than what you said, but it remains correct."

"Then your source must be a clumsy translator. I read this in the book of the prophet's disciples themselves, published directly after his death."

The elf tied off his bowstring. "I can do you one better."

"Oh, can you? The next best would have to be Lebioda himself!"

Iorveth gathered his braids, looping them gracefully, one over the other. "Precisely. Where might I hang these?"

Stunned, Vesimir just managed to say "Up the stairs, by that bow wrack. There's some hooks- Hey, wait a moment!"

Iorveth had already left the kitchen. Once Vesimir collected the pieces of his shattered perceptions off the dirty flagstones, he set off after the elf, winding his way through the halls. Iorveth had finished hanging the potential bowstrings, one end hooked on a beam, and the rest stretched as taught as they could go, weighed down with any heavy object the elf could find. He'd settled onto a chair, pipe clenched between his teeth, fishing in his pockets for a match.

"What did you mean back there?"

"Hm?" Iorveth spared him a glance. "You haven't got something to light this, have you?"

Vesimir obliged him, waiting with crossed arms as Iorveth began to puff at his pipe. 

He took a long draw, puffing three small smoke rings. "What is it you're asking about again? It's been too long since someone has paid any mind to my personal history. Anything you wonder about will likely require repeat questioning."

"How can you-" Vesimir jabbed his finger at Iorveth, "-claim to know better than I do-" Vesiminr indicated himself with his thumb "-what happened over a century ago."

Iorveth puffed away on his pipe for a moment longer. "I was there, sir. Lebioda happened to be in the same vicinity as I, and we crossed paths. Not just me, of course, there has to be at least thirty people listening to the old man talk." He paused to consider his words. "There were some boys writing down everything he said. One of them must've gotten the line wrong."

Not so young a lad as Vesimir had first thought. "That's very impressive. Very impressive indeed."

Iorveth shrugged. "It's living. Everyone's good at living until they aren't."

"How old are you, exactly?"

The elf rolled his eyes. "I don't know,  _ exactly _ . How long ago did Aelirinn rebel?"

"Two centuries, a little more."

"Hm. And that sainted Gregory, in Novigrad. That was about two decades after your ilk came into being?"

"Around then, yes. The witcher order started around 953, or thereabouts."

Iorveth shut his eye and thought for a bit. "I was nineteen then."

For the last few decades, Vesimir had become used to being the oldest man in the room. He thrived on it, even. "My apologies. I suppose youth bowed to age, then."

Iorveth smirked. "If anyone had bothered writing that sermon down correctly, you'd know the next bit. "But low, let not youth be arrogant, for we shall all be old one day." I'm sure you'll mature in the next century or so." 

Vesimir huffed. Most of his comebacks rested on noting he could have been the other party's father. This man could have been Vesimir's GRANDfather. His ego caved, and Vesimir pulled up a stool next to the elf. "Did you fight with Aelirenn?"

Iorveth shook his head. "Not with her specifically. I was too old to fall for that idealistic bullshit, but I did follow her into battle." Most of Iorveth's life centered around following the ideals of more significant, better, more determined people. He ought to know better by now, but here he was. "I'm sure the day had glory in it for some. Most passed as she promised- beautifully, and with honor."

"Not you."

He barked a short, sharp laugh. "No, not me. A friend and I were taken by dh'oine, towards the end. I escaped. I tried to take him with me, but some bastard shot him through the head." He laughed again, quieter. "It went right into his skull and came out the front. Through his eye." 

Vesimir nodded. "Nasty stuff." The old witcher rolled up his trouser leg, exposing a mess of scar tissue on his ankle and calf. "Kikimore got me here, not long after I started witching. Absolute bitch of a thing, it still aches on some days."

Iorveth nodded, pulling up the right side of his shirt, twisting so the old witcher could see. "See those little spots, there?" He turned to show three matching ones on his back. "Torturer got me. Drove sharpened, thin stakes through me, until he had pinned me to the ground." He pulled his shirt down and shot Vesimir a grin. "Bastard never did get me to talk, and after I had the pleasure of hoisting his head on a pike."

"Ah, that's nothing, look here!" He pulled up his shirt to expose a horrific, splotchy patch of white and shiny red all over his stomach.

Iorveth flinched. "Oof, my boy, what could have done that?"

Vesimir wiggled his eyebrows. "If I tell you, you've got to tell me one of my choosing."

The elf sighed. "Fine. I already know which one you'll ask about, but it had better be a good story."

Vesimir nodded. "Of course, of course. So you know the stories of witchers being ladies men." 

Iorveth didn't have to respond. Vesimir continued. "That may be my fault. You see, I'd done a job, and this beautiful woman offered to give me a tip on top of my silver pieces. Services were cheaper in those days- you know that. She failed to tell me, and I can understand why, her husband was set to come home not long after we'd started in on each other."

He glanced up at the elf, pleased to see a little smile as he re-lit the pipe bowl. "Do go on, I can't wait to hear how you got your comeuppance."

"A crucial part of this story is that her husband... was a candlemaker."

He paused, glee filling his face as Iorveth processed why that would matter. "So caught up in the moment was I, I failed to notice him come home, walk up the stairs, see his lady-wife pre-occupied with me, and retrieve a boiling hot pot of wax."

He pulled his shirt back down. "Tossed it all over me. Not a drop got on her, blessedly. Let me tell you. Few things are as sickening as the sound of skin coming off with wax. Normally that oughtn't to happen, but this batch was hot enough... well. I didn't learn my lesson." 

Iorveth gaped at him, trying not to think about how far down the scar went on his abdomen. A large portion went quite far below the witcher's belt. "If I've lost the stomach for dinner, boy, you are entirely to blame. One small rabbit ought to suffice- by the gods." 

Vesimir leaned back on his stool, satisfied. 

"You can tell me your story later. Looking a bit green, old man. Take a walk, clear your head. It's a lovely day for it."

Iorveth thanked him and bowed out, stomach churning. 

Vesimir tapped his foot on the flagstones and pondered for a moment. "He's a fine man. Just fine."

_ Cynwrig _

_ I met with the Lodowygwrach. She is incredible. Unfortunately, in order to learn much from her, due to my circumstances, I have to go through trials and become an official apprentice. I do this for you, and oh, do you owe me so much. When my time comes to wander the world with my beloved, you'd better throw us a hell of a sending-off party. _

_ That you are somehow solving this problem on your own fills me with doubt. I do not trust your plans, and you are my most incompetent friend. _

_ That horrid woman came back again. She's been asking strange questions, and I, for one, am prepared to stab her the next time she makes a condescending remark about Elven folk charms. She may be even more frustrating than you. She's lucky she's pretty. _

_ Remember to drink water, we can't solve your problem if you've been fucked to death. Take the story of D'naiel and the courtesan Morrav as a warning! _

_ Toruviel _

_ PS- Almost sent this too early. My mentor (oh, do I loath that word) has let slip a little that may be of use to you. She asked me, I believe rhetorically, why we have a Seov-pair go off together one they've found one another. My answer does not bear repeating, but she did correct me thusly- It is because such a union must be nurtured, or it will rot. _

Geralt saw Iorveth wandering out the front gate, dropped a sword he was holding, and immediately set to follow. He sized the elf up. No pack, no swords. Just his bow and a small clutch of arrows. Geralt checked the sun- it was maybe an hour or two past noon, not nearly time for Iorveth to hunt for food. 

He almost let the elf go, but something about Iorveth getting smaller and smaller on the horizon pulled him forward.

Since that first night, he'd avoided Iorveth. What  _ would _ Geralt have done if Iorveth said yes? The elf had not denied or confirmed, and all the nights waiting delivered no answer. 

The witcher followed at a distance, just far enough behind that, if Iorveth noticed and ran, Geralt would likely lose him. He resented the deep relief he felt once it became clear that Iorveth was heading towards the lake, and not the road. Perhaps he was craving fish rather than game for dinner, and planned to shoot them out of the water. An unorthodox technique, but one Geralt had seen utilized before by some. 

Iorveth slipped off his boots and discarded both bow and arrows at the lakeside and waded in, first up to his ankles, then his knees. The water was practically freezing year-round, even in the height of summer. He tilted his head back as the clouds overhead broke, showering him in buttery light. 

Geralt began his approach, stopping at the discarded belongings. He recognized the boots. Some old pair Eskel had abandoned as useless. They'd been patched with some considerable skill, yet another tool in Iorveth's arsenal that Geralt was unaware of. He could have come in handy when Ciri lived at Kaer Morhen, none of the witchers had any skill with a needle and thread. 

"There's drowners in there."

Iorveth didn't move. "Shocking. You'd think a pond near witchers would be empty of the beasts."

"We keep it stocked in case anyone new needs to train."

"Mmm. Like keeping your pond stocked with sharks, in case someone happens to crave soup."

The witcher plopped himself down on the sandy banks, waiting. Iorveth stayed in the water, soaking up the sun and freezing his feet. Curiosity gnawed at the witcher. "What are you doing?"

A few breaths passed, and Iorveth replied. "Waiting. Thinking. Cooling down. Normally I'd go for a swim, but the waters here are fraught with danger as you said." Satisfied with his soak Iorveth began to head back to shore. Geralt had been pleased when they'd started speaking, as for once his heart behaved, but upon seeing the elf's face, it remembered to jump into the witcher's throat and block any further words. 

His hair had grown since Aedirn. What barely brushed his jaw now tickled his shoulders, and though it remained choppy, the witcher couldn't help but feel breathless at the potential it whispered. Iorveth's previous cut seemed to accentuate, nay, demand ugliness. Allowing even a little part of him to behave naturally turned him from something broken to something rare and beautiful, more precious for the damage he'd sustained. 

"Really, why are you out here?"

Iorveth laid down on the sand, three or so feet from Geralt. He made no move to roll down his trousers nor replace his boots. 

"To read letters, mostly. Toruviel keeps me updated, I've told you. The mail carrier meets me when I hunt."

Geralt must have heard wrong. "I hope you don't mean who I think you mean."

The elf quirked an eyebrow. "Perhaps. Do you know her?"

Geralt groaned and rubbed his temples. "Yes. No. Maybe? I met her a few months after I woke up, but I'm fairly certain she beat the shit out of me. And possibly stabbed me. She also broke Dandelion's lute. And a field spirit saved us."

Iorveth nodded. "Yes, that does sound like the sort of nonsense she would get up to. Who knows, maybe it's the same woman."

The witcher waited for his headache to subside. Iorveth let the tide lick at his feet and waited in silence, thinking about the letter he'd received just before they arrived at Kaer Morhen. Toruviel's parting words gnawed at him.

"Ask me again."

"Ask you what?" Geralt's head still hurt.

"What you asked the other night."

Geralt steeled himself. "Did you hunt Ciri?"

What better way to rot a bond than by admitting poisoning it?

"We were all under orders to hunt your child, for a while. Those orders were rescinded once that girl who, apparently, is not your Cirilla, was affianced to the Emperor. By then, he had already begun to mistrust the Scoia'tael. Three, maybe four months later, Emir set an ambush for Isengrim. For all of us." 

He grinned involuntarily at the memory. Dh'oine, begging for their lives, screaming for mercy as ants crawled into their eyes and ears. Such fun they'd had. 

"It failed, of course. Nilfgaard lost the Scoia'tael's loyalty nigh instantly. It was your doing, by the by." His good eye rolled up to look at the witcher. "You lost us Cirilla and Cahir."

"Cahir too?" Geralt was shocked. 

Iorveth nodded. "Yes. We took him at Thaenedd after he failed to kidnap a fourteen-year-old. I do acknowledge, a fourteen-year-old witcheress, but I wager if one of ours had found her first, the story would be different." He ignored Geralt's fists, balling up sand. "The scoia'tael were meant to take him in, and we did try to, but some soldiers stole the prize from us. Bloody good thing, too, from the field reports. You cut the dh'oine to ribbons. So much trouble over such a little thing."

Geralt had indeed killed many Nilfgaardian soldiers that wet and stormy night, with the help of Milva. Another pang of memory and regret filled him. He tried not to think about what he was learning, keeping the potential rage down at the thought of Iorveth riding down Geralt's child. It could easily have been him Geralt killed at Thaenedd, rather than any other half a dozen or so scoia'tael he did dispatch. 

"All that eventually lead to the execution at the Hydra," he continued, pushing the witcher further. "The Vrihedd wouldn't have survived of course. His Majesty who dances on the graves of his enemies couldn't afford to let us live, but it might have been a kinder death." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Geralt glancing furtively at Iorveth's scar. "I could easily blame you for what they did to my face. Maybe if you'd let Ciri be captured, I'd still have my eye."

Geralt shot up, sand flying in all directions. Iorveth stayed where he was, idly observing the witcher. 

"You. You-"

"I what? You can't call me anything I haven't heard before."

Geralt roared, and Iorveth silently cursed Toruviel for her damned advice. The witcher started to storm off, and Iorveth sat up with a sigh. He didn't have long, however, before Geralt stormed right back. 

"You can fucking THANK me. You wouldn't have survived to see that fucking mess of a face without me." 

He immediately regretted his words. Iorveth's face went hard and cold. He stood slowly, drawing up to his full height. Geralt had almost forgotten how Iorveth could  _ loom _ when he wanted to. He looked down his nose at the witcher. 

"Can I, now? And just why would that be,  _ Gwynbleidd _ ?"

Geralt smiled nastily up at Iorveth. 

"I wandered the fucking earth. I tracked the Hunt from dusk to dawn, up and down the continent. And what did I find?" He stepped closer, looking directly up at the elf. "I found a pit of elves. Now, I know, a pit full of the rat-bastards who made my life hell and separated me from my child- of course, every bad experience has come from you or your friends." He spat on the ground.

"One of them was hurt. I took pity on it. I patched it up and dragged it into the woods. Thought I would never see such a fucked-up face in all my life, but lo and behold, there you were in Flotsam." 

They stood there, face to face, as Iorveth processed Geralt's words. Geralt couldn't stop himself. "I should have left you to die."

Iroveth's face fell, and Geralt's heart began to fracture.

Then it snapped.

"Yes. You should have."

What Geralt heard was, "You should have let me die." What Iorveth meant was, "You should have put me out of my misery when you had the chance."

The elf stepped away, stooping to collect his boots and weapons. He fumbled, and before he left, turned to the witcher.

"I'm glad to understand what you meant when you said I was "too good to give up on."" Geralt's head dropped, eyes focused on the tips of his boots. "You could have just said all you wanted was a good fuck, but I suppose the high and mighty Gwynbleidd is too good to admit such things. You're "a little longer" is up. I hope it satisfied."

Geralt listened for the elf's footsteps, and once he was sure Iorveth had gone, sat heavily on the sand. 

_ Toruviel _

_ From the bottom of my heart, fuck you. _

Iorveth turned off the path to the keep and walked, calm and stiff, into the woods, deep and far as he dared. He'd developed a growing, intimate relationship with the forests of Kaer Morhen. The trees breathed around him. A mortal man could live in these woods for a year and know less about them than Iorveth. He finally stopped walking in a small copse of trees, aching from head to toe. 

It physically hurt to rile Geralt up like that. Hurt like frostbite, gnawing away at his insides. The witcher had needed to hear that, though. He needed to, for his own good. Iorveth's presence actively hindered every good Geralt tried to do. He'd said it himself. Somehow every elf who'd impeded the witcher's mission or harmed his loved ones tied back to Iorveth. 

Shuddering with disgust, Iorveth hauled back his right fist and slammed it into the trunk of the nearest tree. The sharp slice of wood into flesh and the dull throb that followed it was a welcome distraction from the gnawing, freezing hell spreading from Iorveth's chest to his belly. He pulled back and did it again, and again. The sun set, leeching all remaining warmth from the world. 

He could hear the comatose dream in his head, the dead Isengrim taunting him. "You will never be anything but a creature of need." 

Iorveth did need. He yearned. 

Need does not care for boundaries, nor glorious missions. Need supersedes want. Iorveth needed Geralt like he needed to eat or breathe. 

Geralt just wanted him. 

He slammed his hand into the wood again and muttered to himself. "Fucking parasite. You're a worthless, preying parasite." Were he a better man, perhaps he could have kept walking. Go up into the mountains, greet a death from exposure with grace, or wander back to Vergen, where real work still awaited him. 

Iorveth's breath made little white puffs in the air. Just outside of his vision, frost crept onto the grass. 

Sharp, mechanical movements removed an arrow from his quiver. He looked at the point, so dangerous. He'd contemplated the end of an arrow, or edge of the sword, as a solution time and again. Typically those sharp solutions weren't Iorveth's; they were other people's. How old had he been when the risk started? Fifty? Seventy? When he began risking it all, personally, just to facilitate a death that might mean something. 

Now it would. 

It would free Geralt from the hell that was Iorveth.

The moon started to peek her wicked eye over the horizon, waiting, watching. Cold moonlight glinted off of the arrow's tip. He pressed it against his throat, pulse throbbing down the shaft to his hands. It would be an ugly death. Just as ugly as him. 

An elf so ugly, the witcher hadn't seen one to match since saving him. 

He shut his eyes and tried to remember the ravine, after. His assumptions had always leaned towards his elven compatriates helping him. It hadn't dawned on him that the shadow in the dark dragging him into the woods could be anyone else.

A familiar pang thrummed in his chest. He'd dreamt of that shadow many times before, but never gave them a face. The silhouette fit. He ought to have recognized the witcher in Flotsam during his dramatic entrance. 

Iorveth licked his lips, cracked and dry. His hands shook. 

All of his willpower had gone to keep his composure in the woods that day. Roshe had barely registered, and Iorveth was going on autopilot. It thrilled him when the witcher spoke and allowed the elf to come off the tree limb and meet him, face to face. 

The apple of his throat bobbed up and down. His throat was dry. 

He owed Geralt. Owed him his life. 

Chill froze his knuckles stiff as Iorveth uncurled his fist, arm dropping limp to his side. The arrow dangled from his fingertips. Bloody-fisted, Iorveth slumped against the tree he'd abused so harshly. He didn't even mind when warm sap stuck to his forehead and arms, amber heat reinvigorating his limbs. He remembered the sun and began to breathe. 

"What do we do when we must think, Iorveth?"

He swallowed and responded to his mother's memory aloud. "We cool down. We contemplate."

"And where is best to do that?"

Iorveth pushed against the tree until he stood steady on his feet. "Between cold and heat, life and death. Feet in the water, face in the sun, hands in the dirt." 

Cedric had adored this when Iorveth introduced him to the concept. The only things that calmed the seer, in the end, were drink and the fresh, living green. 

Sap covered Iorveth's bleeding knuckles, stinging and soothing as they went. Gradually the cold seeped away, and he stood again in a balmy summer night. He looked down at the arrow, sap running down it, dripping onto the ground. He squeezed once, snapping it in two. Without warning, the wind sighed and whipped around Iorveth, ripping at his clothes and hair in a rage. The elf whipped around. No-one. He shuddered, not at the thought of being watched, but because he only now felt that someone had been with him as he felt their absence. 

The wind left as quickly as it had come, and Iorveth keenly felt the desire to be elsewhere. He picked his way through the woodlands towards Kaer Morhen, arms and legs aching. 

He owed the witcher his life. He determined that the witcher would have that life. Iorveth had no right to rob the witcher of satisfaction, whatever that may be. 

Vesimir saw Geralt come back to the keep and, notably, did not see Iorveth for the rest of that day, nor the one after. It wouldn't have mattered, but fresh game kept turning up on the table, and the second-best bed had clearly been slept in. As the days crept on, Vesimir woke up more and more frequently to find Geralt already awake, doing drills, reading, or just sitting the great hall, watching the door, waiting. 

Geralt's all-nighters got so bad that "find the meat" became a scavenger hunt Vesemir grumpily engaged every morning. The only certainty was that it wouldn't be wherever Geralt had set up camp. 

A witcher solves problems. That's what Vesimir told himself as he hauled back four partridges from a side room off the grand hall. A witcher solves issues, and the old should look out for the young. He plucked and prepared the birds. He left two out for Geralt. Specifically, he plopped a plate on whichever table nearest the nigh-catatonic Geralt. This time he'd elected to polish every sword in Kaer Morhen, it seemed.

"At least the boy's working," he muttered, shoulder his swords and tucking a basket under his arm.

The overall effect of a witcher carrying a supper basket is not unlike Red Riding Hood, if she was grizzled, angry, and had an innate sense for killing.

Iorveth was where he always was this time of day- basking in the glow of early evening, barely a quarter-mile from the keep. Beside him rested a pile of bows, strung and polished or repaired where needed.

He placed the basket on the ground, sinking onto a stump just across from the log Iorveth sat upon. "I can't keep making this walk. I'm too old for it."

The elf rolled his eyes. "If I'm not too old, then neither are you, whippersnapper." He nodded to the basket. "Are you not going to offer me some? Rudeness to your elders isn't very tactful, is it?" 

Vesimir snorted and proferred the food. Iorveth was delighted to find bowls of pheasant, greens, and a little bottle of beer. "A fine offering, lad. It's a wonder you haven't wed yet, with so many skills. One day soon, a nice young girl will snatch you up." 

Vesimir aimed a light kick at the elf, artfully dodged. "Codger."

Iorveth grinned around a mouthful. "Prick."

"Cradle robber."

"Gigolo."

They traded insults back and forth over dinner, before lapsing into war stories. The past two nights, Iorveth had done more listening than talking, and Vesimir took note. 

"It's getting colder out."

"Mm. I noticed. Unseasonable, otherwise I'd be sleeping outside- Say, have you noticed anything strange in the woods? Damn place makes me feel watched every minute I'm in here."

Vesimir shook his head.

"I thought you were doing better than him, but you're not."

Iorveth took a swig of his beer and sighed. "You might be right."

The old witcher pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "You can't keep doing this, honestly. It's bad enough to play "find the rabbit" every day- to be honest, I'd rather you two were playing hide the-"

"Don't," Iorveth jabbed a finger at him, "finish that sentence." 

Vesimir held his hands up in defeat. They sat in the quiet for a while longer.

"Carrot."

"What?"

"I was going to say "Hide the Carrot"."

Iorveth lobbed a small bone at Vesimir, hitting him on the shoulder. "The insolence! I ought to teach you a lesson and beat a little respect into you." He rolled his sleeve up and shook his fist in a terrible approximation of a geriatric person threatening a young boy. 

Vesimir laughed and shook his head. If he were fifty years younger, maybe. Or older.

They poked fun at each other over beer and a sunset. Every evening since Iorveth's self-imposed exile, they'd passed the time this way. Vesimir felt badly for Geralt, but he believed strongly that his boys ought to solve their own problems. 

Now the wait was becoming ridiculous, and Vesimir wanted his hall back. 

"How'd you like to eat inside tomorrow evening? A missive came in from one of the towns nearby. They trade with us for witcher services. Castle gets lonely. You can sneak out in the morning. He won't even know you were there." 

Iorveth pondered the bottom of his beer. It might be nice to go up the stairs, rather than shimmying up a wall to get to bed. 

"You know what. I'll take your invitation."

The old witcher beamed. "Grand! Hunt up something nice. We'll have a proper roast-up." He bent down to gather the bundle of bows Iorveth had fixed. Vesimir had now run out of things for the elf to re-string at the rate Iorveth went. He made a note to ask if the elf had any talent for masonry. 

There were worse things to walk in on than your father-figure and the man you fucked smoking pipes and laughing together. Yes, there were worse things, but this ranked reasonably high on the list. Geralt dragged the uncharacteristically chilly evening with him, and although he'd obeyed Vesimir's request, nay, demand that he sit with them, Geralt saw the poisonous look the elf had shot over the elder witcher's way. There was some cold comfort, at least. Geralt wasn't the only one upset with the arrangement. 

Vesimir cleared his throat. "You were in the middle of a story, Iorveth. Come on, don't leave me in suspense. Care for an old man's feelings."

The elf sneered at him, but complied. "Take your own advice, brat. Fine."

He picked up where he left off, recounting a daring tale of death and escape during his youth. As Geralt listened, he was shocked to discover that it wasn't about scoia'tael movements or war, but some boyish escapade. 

"-I'd never seen my father so angry. There I was, bow in hand, no plausible deniability at all, an arrow sticking out of the diplomat's hat-" 

Puzzling out all the sides of Iorveth vexed the witcher. He wasn't usually this bad at analyzing people, recognizing the shades of grey between black and white, but every new facet of the elf surprised Geralt. 

"-Grateful to my sister, in that moment, and she was ready to kill me. She could have let them flog me, but no. Instead, she reveals an affair between herself and the diplomat's son, AND confirms my suspicions, right in front of everyone."

Vesimir laughed, and Geralt got up the courage to look at them. When had this happened, he wondered. This comradery. Likely some time during Geralt's continuous, back-to-back moping sessions.

At intervals, Vesimir would demand Geralt fetch beer and, eventually, vodka, and he obliged. It was harder to obey when Vesimir demanded Geralt participate in the drinking. He liked to drink, but not when every lift or tilt of the head chanced catching the elf's eye. Vesimir tried to pull Geralt into conversations, too, and when that proved too difficult, instead substituted telling stories that involved him. 

The old witcher had finished his third embarrassing story about Geralt-in-training's many, many hilarious failures when he excused himself from the table. "Getting a bit late for me, I'm afraid. Forgive this youth for not holding his liquor, venerable elder."

Iorveth cuffed him on the shoulder as the old witcher rose, watching his receding back. 

Iorveth focused on the fire. "You're lucky to have such a man to look up to." 

Geralt nodded. "Best teacher I could have asked for."

The elf drained his vodka, perhaps a bit too quickly, and thumped his chest. They sat in silence, the fire going to embers in the dark, creaking remains of a once-great castle. 

"Is this home for you, witcher?"

He pondered the question. "Yes, and no. It was home when I was young, and I come back most winters." The next words tumbled out of his mouth. "It's the people inside that are home. Dandelion wrote that somewhere in one of his poems." 

Iorveth nodded. "Vesemir, Yennefer, Dandelion, Zoltan, Cirilla. Others, too, I'd wager. They're home, to you. You protect them, keep them safe in any way you can, right? You'd spill all the blood on earth, of anyone, to keep them safe."

"And you," the witcher did not say. "Add yourself to the list. Please," he refused to say. 

The elf flicked the small, wooden cup he'd been drinking out of, sending it onto its side. He pushed it with the tip of his finger, rolling it back and forth. "You've never been without that family, have you? Not entirely. You know what, or who, it is you're fighting for, and they know you're doing it. There's a trust between you and them."

Geralt nodded again, curious about where Iorveth was going. 

"Imagine," the elf said, "You do not know who you are fighting for. You do not know the faces of this family, because the one you had perished. Every friend you make, every new piece of home you find can, and will, perish, likely in front of you." Iorveth swallowed, hard. "Imagine hearing the promise of a home, of a future you cannot picture in your head. You'd still fight for it, wouldn't you? Or there wouldn't be anything left to live for."

"Sounds awful."

Iorveth caught the cup and picked it up, rolling it over in his hands, feeling the textures under his fingers. "It is. And you can't trust a damned thing, beyond that one day there will be a home to go back to. No matter how much you want to stop, and lie down, and go back to your bed, you can't un-burn what's been burnt. You can only go forward."

The elf's lips parted slightly, then shut again. "Every elf, in every part of this land, feels this way—even the young ones. I'm lucky. I remember some of what "home" used to be like." He sighed through his nose. "You must notice the unkindness my people radiate. We're stiff, or we're lashing out. It's icy indifference or white-hot violence. Every moment we're waiting for the next fight. Anything... extreme, anything emotional is so much easier to read and answer with aggression."

"I have not known what it felt like to be home with someone for three centuries." He raised his head slightly, peering over at Geralt through long, dark lashes. Hair fell over his ruined eye, creating the effect of begging. Whether intentional or no, it affected Geralt instantly. "May I ask something of you?"

Geralt nodded.

Iorveth's heart hammered in his ears. He was sick of Toruviel's advice, sick of being without Geralt. It was time to be some kind of honest with himself and with the witcher.

"You, somehow, someway, feel like home, to me." Iorveth swallowed hard and looked away. He couldn't hold the witcher's yellow gaze. "I beg you. Although you owe me nothing. Hell, I owe you, if anything. But I beg you to please, trust me. And let me adjust. Let me learn how to deal with that home again."

Suspicion forced Geralt to speak. "If this is true, why have you spent every day we've talked trying to upset me?"

Iorveth's thoughts raced to Toruviel's letters.

His plans had changed since Vergen. In the past few days, he'd been considering what he wanted, and come to a slightly new conclusion. To be bound as they were was still not an ideal situation, but perhaps Iorveth could break the bond in a way that might result in a salvageable relationship afterward. Admitting knowledge of it now might undermine everything. Worse, Geralt might not want to break the Seov, and Iorveth could not stand the thought of having that power over the witcher any longer than was necessary. If Geralt wanted him, then Iorveth needed to know it was with his whole and honest self.

"That must be part of the trust I ask. I can't tell you. It's best I don't. Trust me with that secret." He set the cup down, resorting to picking at the scabs left from the glad. "Doubt everything I say, if you must, but not this: I owe you my life several times over, and when I say that you are something I cannot get away from, I mean it. I will not try to drive you away again. Here." He reached into his pocket, extracting a splintered, broken arrow what the head attached. "A gift, to show my sincerity. Take my life. Use it as you please. I owe it to you a thousand times over. You can kill me, or not, whenever you please, but it's yours."

Geralt tried to swallow his shame. He'd wallowed in his guilt, lived in it, since Loc Muinne. Iorveth had not once tried to force Geralt not to mourn, had listened nearly every night on the road from there to Kaer Morhen as the witcher talked through every awful memory that cropped up. Was it fair, then, that Geralt had iced him out entirely for who he used to be?

"We've both been fools." He reached out to stop Iorveth fidgeting, running his thumb over the scabs healing on Iorveth's fist. "I didn't want to know you. I think I wanted to keep you separate, somehow. I thought I could keep that ignorant bliss from Aedern in my pocket and keep you away from the rest of my life." 

He surprised himself as he spoke, but it was true. They'd been so uncomplicated, in part because Geralt had found peace in ignoring his past and responsibilities. Iorveth had been both a blessing and an excuse. Geralt picked up the arrowhead in his free hand, rolling it over and over. "You don't owe me anything. I owe you more. It seems my curse is constantly tripping over my own feet." 

The corner of Iorveth's mouth quirked up uncontrollably. "Your attitude didn't help. I think Vesimir knows more about me than you do." He chewed on his lip, feigning a ponder. "Maybe I picked the wrong witcher?" 

Geralt squeezed the elf's hand. "He'll have to fight me for you."

Iorveth tangled his fingers in Geralt's. "I'd like to see that. What young man doesn't dream of strong men waging wars for the privilege of his hand?" Skin on skin, as little as two hands together, soothed Iorveth immeasurably. Calloused hands squeezed and caressed, Geralt thumbing back and forth over the elf's wrist. He'd pause, and press, every few moments to feel Iorveth's pulse against him, strong and steady.

"You're part of that feeling for me, too, Iorveth."

The elf's pulse spiked suddenly. "Don't lie to make me feel better, wit-... Geralt."

"You asked me to trust you, so trust me." The witcher shut his eyes and readied himself. "I'm not good at this, so forgive me, but I sought you out because I cannot keep away. It ate at me to do so." He set the arrowhead back down. "I don't want your life. Iorveth. I want."

The elf didn't breathe. He didn't move. 

"I don't want your life. I want you."

"I want you, too."

Geralt stood up, and Iorveth followed moments after. The witcher reached out, gripping Iorveth's arm to steady himself and leaned in. Geralt had to place his knee on the table, and Iorveth had to bend down, but they met in the middle in an awkward, trembling kiss. How many first kisses had they had, now? Each new layer of themselves exposed felt like being born anew, and each prior kiss and interaction was a memory gifted from someone else. Hands slid over familiar skin with new intrigue for the body beneath. 

Iorveth pulled Geralt forward, almost toppling them both in his excitement. He rebalanced frantically, awkwardly kicking the bench over, rising to his feet. He clung to the witcher for support, one arm around his waist and the other frantically pulling Geralt's hair loose, reveling in its wild softness. Geralt ran his fingers down Iorveth's spine, releasing his arm in favor of cupping the elf's face.

Iorveth's fingers wandered over whatever exposed flesh they could find, digging in as if to anchor the witcher to reality. They pushed and scrabbled at one another. Iorveth would pull, and Geralt give, prompting the witcher to pull right back and clutch Iorveth ever more tightly. Clothes became a hindrance quickly. Iorveth's borrowed gear shed easily, but Geralt's took some work. 

"Must you wear things with so many buckles?" he grumbled, going for a strap on the witcher's shoulder. Geralt wasn't terribly messy, or this would have been a much more unpleasant experience. He'd never seen Geralt so clean after monster work. "What work were you doing?"

Geralt had to ponder this one, not just due to the question's abruptness but because Iorveth had found a very distracting place on his jaw to nibble. "Ah, the village. Infestation of arachnomorphs, nothing a couple of bombs couldn't fix." Geralt shifted slightly to allow Iorveth more ease of access. He went for Iorveth's leather vest, a Lambert castoff the elf had clearly tailored, and tweaked the fastenings off one by one. 

"Mmmm. Clever solution, I may steal it from you."

Iorveth paused to let Geralt slide his vest onto the floor, taking the opportunity to undo the witcher's leather vambraces. Geralt nuzzled the elf's hair. Speaking this much and this casually felt clunky and strange. He loved it. "Now I see your game, elf. Stealing trade witcher secrets by getting my guard down, very clever." 

Iorveth tossed the battered bit of leather armor over his shoulder, lifting Geralt's wrist to press a kiss to it, working his way up the arm as he unlaced more of Geralt's armor. He had to smile at his own ridiculousness. "Tragic that you've seen through my ploy. It was going so well, too, you even bought the "nearly burned to death" bit. Shame." He moved to the other arm. "I'll probably have to kill you now, but you won't figure that out until afterward." 

Geralt nodded with faux seriousness. "I shall accept death with dignity. Most witchers don't get such lovely companions when they meet the earth."

Finally, Iorveth freed the witcher from his confines. They'd scattered clothes all over the floor, and stood in their boots, trousers, and undershirts. "I shall endeavor to make it as fun as possible. Get your shirt off." 

He leaned back, quirking an eyebrow and gesturing for Geralt to take care of himself. Geralt obliged. He could feel Iorveth's eyes on him, raking his chest and stomach up and down. The elf licked his lips. "I don't think I could ever get tired of this view."

Geralt bundled the fabric up and tossed it away, nodding for Iorveth to do the same. The elf huffed and rolled his eye, but did as indicated. His shirt buttoned, and Iorveth took his time undoing the cuffs, slowly unfastening each button with deliberate one-handed slowness. He relished Geralt's expression. Taking one's time had its advantages, novelty chief amongst them. 

He dropped his shirt to the ground, letting Geralt get a good look at him. In the split-second of distraction, the elf pounced, twisting and pushing the witcher onto his back. Geralt usually knew where this was going, but much to his surprise, he found the elf straddling him rather than pushing between his legs. 

He didn't mind in the slightest. Geralt tried to sit up to embrace the elf, but found a hand on his chest, pushing him back down. "Enjoy the view. You may be the only person living who's seen it from such an angle." Before Geralt could question his meaning, Iorveth ground his hips down on Geralt's crotch in a slow, undulating rhythm. His hands shifted, firmly placed on either side of the witcher's head, pinning him and forcing him to stare up at Iorveth's face. 

Geralt reciprocated from his position as best he could. He shifted, encouraging as much friction as possible. They caught on one another, Iorveth tilting his head back to moan and Geralt shuddering. Part of him wished he could be more expressive, but the majority adored how present he could be to watch Iorveth on top of him. 

Unwilling to be the exclusive subject of pleasure, Geralt sat up enough to reach down and grip Iorveth just between the thighs and hips. He dug in, hard, leveraging the elf barely enough to let Geralt's straining cock press into as much of Iorveth as possible. He barely stifled a hopeful groan as Iorveth ground his ass downward. 

"You like that, do you? Interesting." Iorveth repeated the motion, leaning down to kiss the witcher. His tongue prised open Geralt's willing mouth, almost forcefully exploring yet another part of Geralt. 

Their breathing grew heavy, and Geralt ached. He pulled back just enough to gasp between kisses, "Fuck, Iorveth, I want you. Please."

The flush creeping up Iorveth's cheek agreed, the teasing ought to end soon. "Do you have oil, or do I need to fetch it?" 

Geralt withdrew his hand for Iorveth's hip and slid it down towards his pockets, pausing to drag his thumb down Iorveth's bulge. The elf's eye shut, and he shuddered, back arching and hips writhing against the witcher's hand. "Tease," Iorveth hissed. Geralt just smiled, pulling a little vial of blade oil from his trouser pocket. 

"A witcher has to be prepared for anything," he said, as Iorveth snatched the little bottle from him. 

"Appropriate," Iorveth sniffed, sitting back up to rest on his knees. "I haven't sheathed a blade in a very long time. I'll take yours if you're up for it." He quirked his eyebrow. Geralt had barely nodded an enthusiastic "yes" when Iorveth stood up, absolutely towering over Geralt. He stepped off the table gracefully, unbuckling his trousers as he went. Geralt mourned the change of scenery but quickly perked up when he finished processing what Iorveth was preparing for. Geralt started to do the same, unbuckling his trousers, but Iorveth held up a hand. "Don't deprive me of the pleasure, witcher." 

"You're going to tease me again, aren't you?"

Iorveth nodded, tossing his trousers in a neat arc over the table to join his shirt. "Indeed, and you wouldn't trade it for the world."

That the witcher could not deny, so he didn't, instead leaning back to wait and see what Iorveth had planned. He didn't have to wait long. Iorveth took up a new position near the witcher's shins, still straddling his legs, so as to ensure that his face would be at optimum dick-height. 

Iorveth mimicked Geralt's temple trick, gripping the witcher's belt with his teeth and sliding it out of the buckle. Geralt took notes, eyes fixated on Iorveth as he pulled back with the belt firmly between his teeth. The pull forced Geralt to arch his hips, Iorveth raking his eyes over the witcher. The strip of leather was summarily cast aside. "You look so good with your ass in the air. I may take advantage of that later." 

"Be my guest."

Iorveth went to tug the witcher's trousers down, but paused as Geralt ran his fingers through Iorveth's hair. The elf practically purred, nuzzling against Geralt's hands, nipping at his palms and fingertips. He buried his face in the witcher's palm, green eye practically glowing up at Geralt. The witcher paused, thumbing at Iorveth's scar. He had so much to apologize for.

"Stop, for a moment, please." 

Iorveth frowned.

Geralt pulled himself up farther, cupping Iorveth's face in his hands. "I am so, so sorry." Despite the callouses, Geralt's hands felt soft as they ghosted over Iorveth's face, brushing the hair away. "I didn't mean what I said."

The elf's frown deepened. "You're terrible at keeping a mood going. You know this, yes?" 

Geralt shook his head. "I know, I know, but I can't keep going until I say this. Sadness is worse than whiskeydick." 

Iorveth sighed and rolled his eye. "Fine, if we must. Let me sit more comfortably, at least. You'll be helping me pick splinters out of my knees later, I hope you realize."

The witcher laughed. "Of course, if you help with the ones in my ass."

Iorveth's frown cracked, and he snickered. "Of course." He sat back, crossing his legs. Geralt moved to his knees, resting as he might to meditate in front of Iorveth. He reached out again to take the elf's face in his hands. There were no more eye rolls.

"I promise that I will never lie to you again. I lied at the lake, and it is the worst mistake I made with you."

Iorveth snorted. "I beg to differ, but it is certainly up there."

It was Geralt's turn to make a face. "Yes, I'm an ass, let's move on." He regained his composure, shifting slightly to buy time. He did not like this. "I will never lie to you again, so please, trust me when I tell you this. You are one of, if not the, most beautiful creatures I've ever seen." 

Iorveth's mouth drew into a hard line. "As the eldest person in this castle, I have yet to succumb to dementia. It is upsetting that you, the youngest, have been claimed by it already."

"Shush, please." Geralt leaned in until their foreheads touched, his white hair making a curtain around their faces. The shock of white on black reminded Geralt of the moon against a midnight sky. "I cannot bear to hear you called anything other than beautiful. Ever again." He swallowed hard. Iorveth searched the witcher's face for a lie, but found none. Geralt's breath caught in his chest as he tried to push the words out.

"You gave me your life, you said. You are my Iorveth, and my Iorveth is someone I could barely look at when I met him. You shone so brightly, I think I went blind."

Iorveth shut his eye and tried to pull back. His chest ached. Geralt let him, but kept his hands on the elf's face. "I thought you'd enchanted me," he continued. "I thought you'd done something, but all you've done is be. If we're going to try to do something here beyond fuck, if I'm going to-" he paused. He couldn't finish the sentence, and so moved on. 

"If I'm going to want you this much, you have to know. You don't have to believe me today, but I want you to believe me eventually." 

"Don't just tell me nice things. Words are cheap, witcher. You're very good at saying things, I believe, but you haven't been nearly so skilled at fulfilling what you've said." 

"I know. I know I've been an idiot. That's why I'm not asking you to accept what I'm saying now." He pulled Iorveth close, tilting the elf's head so he might press a kiss to the ruins of his right eye. "I will do my best to convince you. As long as it takes." 

Iorveth didn't flinch away from the kiss, although he wanted to. He slid his hands up the witchers sides, to his back, until he cradled Geralt in his arms. It felt good, being held like this, without expectation. 

Geralt continued to press lazy kisses all over Iorveth's face, soft, undemanding. Iorveth gripped Geralt hard as he dared. The quiet wrapped around them, and time stretched on forever in the dimming hall. 

Iorveth sighed, tension going out of him. "Thank you." He paused. "Thank you, Geralt."

The witcher kissed Iorveth's forehead. "Of course. You're never going to get used to using my name, are you?"

Iorveth let go of Geralt's shoulders, letting his hands slid down to the witcher's waist and settle there. He smiled at the witcher. "I might, eventually, if I get the practice in."

"Practice I will happily engage in, Iorveth."

"I'll hold you to that, Geralt."

Iorveth sighed, looking down at both of their softening cocks. "I don't suppose you'd still be in the mood to fuck?"

The witcher grinned, all teeth and wicked eyes. "Always suppose that." He swooped in, for once getting the drop on Iorveth and smothering the elf's mouth with his own. Shock froze Iorveth momentarily, but he recovered quickly and growled into the kiss, biting the witcher's lower lip hard enough garner a moan. 

Iorveth used his momentum to push Geralt onto his back again, slithering a hand down to tweak the witcher's nipples just so. "We'll get those splinters in your ass yet," he muttered, and Geralt laughed into another kiss. Iorveth groped for the oil, unwilling to part for a moment from Geralt's lips. 

He nearly knocked the little bottle off the table but rescued it with a lunge. Geralt took the opportunity to bury his face in Iorveth's exposed neck, running his tongue from collar bone to jaw, then kissing his way back down. Iorveth shivered and moaned the witcher's name. "Right there, Geralt, that's the spot." 

Geralt noted it and lingered a while, just at the hollow of the elf's shoulder. He prodded and poked with his tongue, nipping experimentally. To his delight, Iorveth's eye rolled back, and he gasped when Geralt sucked the skin between his teeth and dug them in. Iorveth's hand rested on the witcher's chest for balance, his nails digging crescents into the witcher's flesh. 

"That's it, do it again." 

Geralt felt Iorveth harden against him, arousing the witcher in turn. He peppered Iorveths neck and shoulder with bruises and bite marks, sure to raise some questions if Iorveth didn't dress carefully tomorrow. 

Iorveth pulled away and sat back up on his knees, straddling Geralt's hips. The witcher whined, and this time Iorveth didn't stop him from sitting up a bit, letting Geralt run his hands all over his chest and hips. The elf snagged the oil bottle cork in his teeth, spitting it rather skillfully into the fireplace. "Won't need that again," he muttered, nodding pointedly at Geralt's cock. "Hold out your hand. I wasn't joking. It has been a very long time."

The witcher did as bidden. Iorveth backed up, again nodded at his waist. "Go on, then." Iorveth shimmied a bit lower, tugging at the witcher's trousers until his cock bobbed free. "Be a good boy while I take care of myself."

He slicked his fingers with oil and reached behind him, hungrily eyeing Geralt as he began to touch himself. "I can't get enough of you underneath me." 

"Then put me here more often."

Iorveth had managed to get one finger inside himself and carefully worked in a second. "I plan on it. Although I do recall, you also look very sweet with my cock in your mouth."

"I can say the same for you." The witcher wiggled his eyebrows, and Iorveth barked a harsh laugh.

It tapered off into a moan when Geralt abandoned his cock and went for Iorveths, stroking the elf just enough to make his thighs quiver. It seemed Iorveth needed the stimulation, because he accepted a third finger readily. He pulled his hand away, leaning down to wipe his hand on one of their discarded shirts. 

Geralt shuddered. Strange though it was, he loved how  _ heavy _ Iorveth felt on him. He felt real, solid, comforting.

"It's unfair you're not naked. If Vesimir wakes up, I will not be the only one exposing his shame." Iorveth sat up, hooked his fingers into Geralt's belt loops, and peeled the trousers down until Geralt could kick them off. 

"Much better." 

Iorveth returned to his preferred spot- hovering over Geralt's cock. 

The witcher starred up in awe as Iorveth readied himself. He couldn't speak, first from wonder, and then sheer sensation as Iorveth sank the first few inches down his shaft. Geralt couldn't help himself, back arching off the table and eyes rolling back in his head. It was all he could do to keep from slamming his hips up into Iorveth from sheer desperation.

Iorveth pulled back, then pushed down a bit more. Then again, and again. Geralt rocked his hips up gently every time Iorveth lowered his hips, desperate for skin to touch skin. 

A log, untouched by the fire as yet, flared to life suddenly as Geralt got his wish. Iorveth sank all of the witcher into himself and threw his head back, then forward, resting his hands on the witcher's chest for balance. 

The image burned itself into the witcher's brain. Iorveth glowed, all golden, just for him. Light flickered, illuminating all the scars and chisels in the elf's muscled skin. His shoulders flexed and rocked, thighs clenching Geralt's thighs as he adjusted to the witcher's girth within him. 

Iorveth stared, transfixed, at the sister-site to Geralt's. He'd never seen the witcher's face so open. His dark pupils opened so wide Iorveth could barely make out the slightest bright ring of yellow. They looked at one another, thinking a thousand ways to say "I love you," speaking none of them. 

Geralt couldn't take the wait, running his hands up Iorveth's thighs. The burn scars felt strange, oddly smooth, and his skin far softer than Geralt imagined. "I ought to have paid more attention before," he thought. "He's like a dream. A solid dream."

Iorveth leaned down and kissed the witcher once, lightly, on the lips. "What's that look for?"

The witcher sat up and caught Iorveth's lips with his and whispered, "You."

Geralt rocked his hips up, and Iorveth shuddered, pulling back from the kiss with a mischievous glint in his eye. He gripped the witcher's waist, firm fingers keeping Geralt well in place. He began to raise his hips, agonizingly slowly. The witcher hissed through his teeth.

Iorveth paused just before the witcher's cock escaped him and began a descent just as languid. He savored every inch, not faltering for a moment in his unhurried ministrations. 

For a while, Geralt managed to keep his composure. He allowed the elf to fuck himself, agonizing though the pace may have been. His hands twitched and itched to grip and grab. By the sixth round of up-and-down, his teeth ground together with the stress of it all. Iorveth's face split into a grin. 

"Do you want something, Geralt?"

The witcher nodded. He'd run out of words. 

"Am I going too slow for you? Poor lad."

Geralt nodded again. Iorveth pulled back up onto his knees, Geralt's cock barely inside him. Iorveth grabbed the witchers hands and placed them firmly on his scarred hips. He leaned forward, hands on either side of Geralt's face. Their noses almost touched. He searched Geral for something, and, upon finding it, a little smirk crossed his face. He sat back up, cocking his head to the side.

"If you want me, then  _ fuck me _ ."

Geralt didn't need telling twice. He slammed his hips home, hips rising off the table. He bent at the knees, lifting both witcher and elf as he pulled back and slammed again, rattling the poor wooden furniture that had held for many centuries but might not last too many more. 

Iorveth bit his lip, eye rolling back into his head. Geralt began to well and truly plow him, setting a rapid pace a human man could not hope to keep up. Iorveth braced himself on Geralt's shoulders, letting himself fall into a blank space of pleasure. "That's it, Geralt. It feels so good to have you inside me," he barely managed. 

All of Geralt's mind narrowed to the single pinpoint of the moment. All he could feel was Iorveth on him, around him. He could see nothing beyond the elf's face, contorting with each of Geralt's thrusts. He could smell only Iorveth, a strange and heady mixture of the forest and sweat. It made him drunk. He wanted to smell Iorveth on his clothes, in the sheets of every bed he slept in from here until the end of the world. Desperate for more, Geralt kissed the elf again to taste him, salty, on his tongue.

Iorveth moaned against him, shifting onto one hand to grip his cock with the other. Geralt noticed, barely, and redoubled his efforts. The animal in him pushed at the witcher's chest. He huffed, clawing at Iorveth's hips, biting at any available bit of skin he could find. "Mine," he growled into Iorveth's neck.

The elf wrenched back, gripping Geralt's face. He bared his teeth, and snarled back, " _ Mine. _ "

One hand abandoned Iorveth's thighs to grab his wrist, breaking the elf's hold on the witcher's face. With a mighty shove Geralt sat up, forcing Iorveth to straddle his lap. He moved the hand from thigh to waist, wrapping around to lock Iorveth in place. 

Iron and sweetness flooded Iorveth's mouth as he sank his teeth into Geralt's shoulder, blood trickling lightly from the wound. He wrenched his hand free from Geralt's grip and tangled it in his snowy hair, forcing the witcher's head to the side. Iorvith latched himself to the witcher's neck even as Geralt continued his relentless plowing. The end tantalized them both, pain, and pleasure pushing both into a haze of hedonistic flesh. Geralt felt Iorveth begin to tense around him, chorded muscle tensing as the elf tried to muffle the witcher's name, cried out in desperation. 

No such attempts did Geralt make. "Iorveth, Iorveth, I'm close." 

Speaking was something akin to a miracle. The witcher barely held onto his sense of self as Iorveth allowed Geralt to fuck him. The witcher turned his head, nipping at Iorveth's pointed ear before murmuring, "Let me see you."

The elf barely managed to obey. His eye clouded over, jaw slack. 

"Geralt I-"

He didn't manage to finish, shockwaves radiating out from his hips as he came. Geralt's began moments after Iorveth's, every muscle of him surging as he plunged as far as he could into Iorveth. No space remained between them as they came, Iorveth painting the witcher's stomach with his seed, and Geralt spending his inside the elf. A second wave, slightly smaller but more intense for its immediacy, followed. Iorveth, in a moment of coherency, used his grip on Geralt's hair to push them together again. As the aftershocks rocked through them, they lost all sense of where one started and the other began. They shuddered against one another with barely the strength to kiss, let along untangle from one another. Seconds or years could have passed, and they couldn't have cared less. 

Since remembering and waking up in his entirety, Geralt caught a glimpse again of that golden moment in Flotsam. He felt whole and full, albeit in a slightly different way than Iorveth currently did. Every point of contact overwhelmed and satisfied him, but sent him craving more. 

As their tongues lazily coiled together and Iorveth combed his clever fingers through the witcher's locks, Geralt chided himself for wanting to dispose of this. He could have everything if he just held onto it hard enough.

Iorveth pulled back to breathe. "You are full of surprises, Geralt. I won't sit right for a week like this."

He disentangled his arm from between them, reaching around to squeeze the witcher's ass. "Remind me to get you back for that soon."

Geralt laughed breathlessly—what a fantastic way to be breathless. "I'll remind you. Tomorrow, and the next day, and the next." He moved slightly, and Iorveth shuddered. "Can you go again?"

The elf looked like he wanted desperately, but thought better of it as his hip let out a horrific "crunch" when he moved. He flinched. "Much as I enjoy you causing me pain, I'd best say no. If you send me back to the Temple because you fucked me too hard, Nenenneke will have your head. Both heads."

Geralt reluctantly allowed Iorveth to disentangle himself. Iorveth shot him a look when he whined in the back of the throat. "Really, now. Save those noises for tomorrow." Iorveth winced as he swung his legs over the edge of the table. "I hope tomorrow. It must've been longer than I thought, good gods."

Geralt followed him as he stood up, half worrying Iorveth might collapse. Iorveth did not, thankfully, and stretched his hands above his head, arching his back until it popped. He looked at the floor, littered with clothes, and sighed. "I suppose we ought to pick these up." He snatched his shirt from the ground, draping it over his arm. Geralt followed suit. 

"Not getting dressed?"

Iorveth turned to look at Geralt over his shoulder. "Would you spoil a view like this?"

Geralt smiled and made his way over to the elf, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Not for all the world."

  
  



	16. Domestic Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Iorveth grow used to each other. Lots of conversations are had over the span of a few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot starts up again next chapter, enjoy the fluff while you can!

Watery sunlight trickled in through the window. Iorveth groaned, unwilling to allow dawn to have come so soon. He rolled over, groping for something to block out the hated light. He hit on solid flesh, which groaned and flung its arm over the elf's waist. Iorveth gave in to the morning's demands, albeit reluctantly, and opened his eye.

The witcher dozed quietly beside him.Iorveth paused. Every opportunity to share a bed thus far came with the caveat of things to do. Recruit archers from far and wide, save Aedirn from the machinations of a sorceress, keep Iorveth's bones from seizing up. The list went on. At most, they'd have a moment or two to rise, nod at one another, and proceed with the necessary parts of existing.

He watched Geralt.

The witcher's mouth had parted slightly, jaw slack in the deep throes of sleep. Iorveth brushed a bit of hair away and tucked it back behind Geralt's ear, shocked to see Geralt's eyelashes were just as pale as the rest of him. He made a note to inquire after this. Iorveth had met one or two albinos, and they were quite pale, but a slight shade of pink or yellow tinted heir skin and hair.

Geralt's hairs, every one, stood out stark.

He ghosted a fingertip down the scar which arched over the witcher's face. A sword, perhaps, or the claw of some great beast? He jostled the witcher carefully so as not to wake him, turning the man onto his back. It pleased him much when Geralt's face screwed up in annoyance.

"How are you more expressive asleep than awake? Witchers are nonsense."+

The witcher stayed asleep, allowing Iorveth's indulgence further.

In such clear light, Iorveth saw thousands of stories etched in the witcher's body. Most were claw marks or bites, and he noted with pleasure how well his teeth matched the rest of Geralt's scars.

Something across the witcher's neck caught his eye. Iorveth leaned in closer, shocked to see the barest trace of scar tissue. He traced the lines, the horror of it all dawning on him. Iorveth had seen, not similar scars, but wounds. He had personally delivered some, although those were far less jagged.

Swords could not cause such damage unless serrated and very blunt. He was enraptured.

"Striga."

Iorveth froze. The witcher's eyes were still closed. "Technically, a Princess who had been a striga, but the point stands."

The elf kept his composure, at least, externally. "Ah, I heard that story. Several versions. The princess wasn't excited to be released from her torment, then?"

Geralt kept his eyes closed, but shook his head. "Not a bit. She was cursed since the age of four, in deference to her. It must've been upsetting to go from the hulking monster you've been for a decade to something alien. She hadn't spoken to another human in so long. I think she assumed I was there to kill her, like the poor bastards she'd eaten."

Iorveth rested his hand on the witcher's neck, thumbing the spiderwebbed scar. "Did she go at you with her teeth, then?"

The witcher snorted. "No. Her fingernails. She'd transformed literal seconds before. I think she might still have had some claw remnants. I'm lucky she didn't kill me. Someone found me on the ground bleeding out from the throat. I couldn't talk for a week."

Nothing Iorveth had to say would contribute, so he held his tongue, tracing scars. "How long have you been awake?" he said eventually. Geralt shrugged.

"Am I not dreaming?" He finally cracked an eye, yellow visible through a veil of white lashes. "Sure seems like it."

"If we've somehow managed to share a subconscious space, I'll let you know."

The witcher opened his eyes the rest of the way. "Then you woke me when you touched my neck. I had to wait and make sure this hadn't all been an elaborate assassination plot. You've been hiding the game well so far."

"I assure you, Geralt, if I wanted to kill you I would have already done so. Likely when I pinned you to that tree outside of Aedern."

Geralt groaned and covered his face. "Don't remind me, please. You had every right to put an arrow between my eyes for the idiocy coming out of my mouth." He peeked at the elf from between his fingers. "Why did you hear me out, anyway?"

Iorveth rolled one shoulder in a smooth shrug. "You seemed distressed. Far be it from me to allow a man to suffer in silence. I doubt you'd have been silent, anyway. The damn broke down, and the words came flooding out. I was just an innocent bystander to it all."

"Instigator. You were an innocent instigator."

"Says the man who tracked me down, in the woods. A man I was intentionally avoiding at the time."

Geralt let his hand drop back to the bed. "Really? Why?"

Initial instincts were to respond with snark, but Iorveth calmed himself. He tried to be sincere to Geralt's face and found he could not, instead rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling, propped on his elbows. The witcher radiated warmth, which Iorveth appreciated. He had to think back before Toruviel's devastating news. "Did you know I had people following you?"

"After Flotsam?"

"Yes, after Flotsam. Not on purpose, mind you." He sighed. The lad who'd presented Iorveth with his dossier on Geralt couldn't have been much more than seventeen. While he'd appreciated the young scoia'tael's initiative, it put him in a foul mood.

"I didn't specifically say that I no longer needed you tailed, and someone thought they'd curry favor by keeping track of everything you did. Everything."

"Ah." Geralt recalled the many welcoming women of Aedirn, elves, humans, and dwarves alike. Many, many welcoming women. Something occurred to him. The witcher rolled onto his side, propping up on an elbow. "Were you jealous?"

Iorveth rolled his eye. "Technically, it was envy, not jealousy. I didn't have you yet." He could feel the witcher's shit-eating grin. "Moreso, I was angry with myself for caring. The plan was to find Triss Merrigold on my own, pair the two of you off, and continue as I was." He sighed, focusing on dust motes dancing through a narrow window. If he kept distracted, then he could keep talking. "I was frustrated, too."

Geralt made an agreeable noise. "So that trail of corpses wasn't just you doing your bit to keep Aedirn and her people safe. I'm shocked. You're normally so altruistic."

Iorveth chuckled. "One of my better-known qualities, that."

Both men played the scene back in their heads. Geralt found his eloquence tucked somewhere in his missing memories, and for that, Iorveth was grateful. His brow furrowed, and the elf turned over in a mirror of Geralt's propped-up post. "What were those dreams you were babbling about?"

Geralt's mind's eye whirled. He hadn't thought about those since the battlefield. He hadn't had one since.

"Probably amnesia dreams. I was remembering things. The massacre of Rivia plagued me. Some part of me remembered that bloody show, and it wasn't playing nice with the rest of me."

"Not playing nice with your libido, you mean."

"Call it what you like. I've resolved the issue, at least."

"Good." Iorveth reached out to grab Geralt's wrist and rolled, pushing with his ups until Geralt was on his back again, and Iorveth had him pinned. "Maybe we can give you better dreams, now."

Geralt kissed the elf, and Iorveth responded in kind. Geralt wiggled a hand free and went to grope at the elf's backside. Iorveth flinched and broke the kiss, shaking his head. "You did enough damage last night, vatt'ghern. Give me some time to recover."

Before Geralt could reply, they heard a sharp knock on the door.

"Vesimir," the witcher groaned. Iorveth rolled off of Geralt, off the bed, and onto his feet. In a flash, he'd scrounged an old pair of someone else's trousers, which Geralt recognized as his own. Were he capable of blushing, he would.

No more knocks came, but Geralt knew better than to laze in bed. There would be a laundry list of work to be done. Their quiet morning had officially begun.

He looked over at Iorveth, pawing through trunks of old shirts, jerkins, vests, and other sundry things. Perhaps a busy morning wouldn't be so bad, with someone to spend it with.

Many busy mornings followed, watery sunlight turning to the dark, heady gold of late early autumn as time crept on. Iorveth squinted into the witcher’s training yard and frowned.

"This is a joke, yes?"

Iorveth eyed the Pendulum, wary. Geralt shook his head. "Too serious. Vesimir wants us to check and see if this is in working order."

Iorveth snorted. "By "us," he does mean "you." I've damaged myself enough in the last month, you have your fun." The elf pulled up a crate of something unidentifiable and plopped down, stretching his long legs before him. He grumbled under his breath. "I should have brought a book. There was a particularly interesting one on dreams I had been hoping to try today."

Iorveth brought his attention back to the witcher and gestured to Geralt dismissively. "Go on, I can see you want to show me how it works."

Geralt didn't want to admit how right he was. He started the infernal contraption, enemy of young witchers everywhere. Whoever designed it must have had an evil mind, but one well versed in the necessities of monster hunting. As Geralt hopped on one of the posts, he was suddenly thirteen again, a bruised and determined child trying to prove himself.

He glanced over his shoulder at Iorveth and, upon catching his eye, whipped back around.

Geralt didn't admit to himself until he started the course that he'd checked to make sure Iorveth was watching.

He didn't set any records, it had been too long and he hadn't trained like this in a while, but he did manage to cut a graceful swath across the course. He had some close calls, but years of repeated training on this very device saved him from a log to the ribs.

Iorveth sat, riveted. Here he was, in a legendary place, observing trade secrets, with no-one to tell. He noted every twist and pirouette of the witcher, even recognizing several moves from previous fights they'd been in together.

The elf applauded politely as Geralt dismounted. "You are wasted as a witcher. They ought to have given you to a troop of dancers rather than robbing the world of Geralt, light of step and full of grace."

Geralt bowed deeply. "Thank you, thank you. It's nothing."

"Such false modesty does not become you."

Geralt stood and strode back over to the Pendulum. "I can give this old bastard most of the credit. Besides, witchers need to be better at all forms of combat than most. Sometimes the best."

Iorveth leaned forward, hands on his knees. "All forms? Really?"

Geralt made a noncommittal noise. "Primarily swords, but we learn a fair bit of everything."

"I can think of one area where you might be humbled."

Geralt turned, curious. "Oh?"

With a great sigh, Iorveth heaved himself to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his knees. "I should think it would be obvious which one I mean." He mocked, holding a bow, pulling an arrow back, and releasing it. If he'd had a real one, it would have hit Geralt right in the eye. "Archery."

"We're better than most."

"Most, yes." He lowered his arms. "But, are you better than me?"

Geralt grinned. "Maybe. Why don't we find out? A little shooting match, me and you."

"It would be a pleasure."

They met out in the practice yard, Iorveth with his bow, Geralt toting one he'd found on a wrack elsewhere in the keep. It occurred to him, as he made his selection, that issuing a challenge to a three-hundred-year-old Scoia'tael who hunted nearly every day might not have been the best decision, but he could keep the stakes low.

Iorveth beat him outside, checking the tension of his bow and the nimbleness of his fingers.

"I have been considering it, and it isn't a test of skill without something to win or lose, is it?"

Geralt swallowed hard. "What did you have in mind?"

Iorveth leveled his eye at Geralt. "A simple back and forth. We aim for a target both agree on. If we hit it accurately, we may ask the other a question he must answer. No winners or losers, just an opportunity to make up for lost time."

Geralt's shoulders relaxed. "A little friendly competition, then."

"Hmm, I suppose. Although I am not familiar with that term in this context."

"What, competition?"

"No." Iorveth took an arrow from a pile he'd assembled on the ground, aiming a practice shot at one of the training dummies. The arrow flew, hitting it squarely in the chest. "Friendly."

Geralt swallowed, now confident he'd made a mistake.

Iorveth graciously allowed Geralt to pick the first target, and he chose simply, indicating a hay training dummy halfway between the farthest and closest. There were ten in the yard, so he was guaranteed at least five good shots. The elf even let him take the first shot.

He didn't do badly. Vesimir would have approved. The arrow flew true, stopping halfway up the bolt in the dummy's head.

"Well shot. Ask away, Geralt."

"I'll start with an easy one, and I'm very sorry not to know this- Is Iorveth your full name?" He didn't know many elves without at least two.

Iorveth shook his head. "No, no, it is not." He took aim, his arrow lodging two inches above Geralt's, and one inch deeper in the dummy's head. "Do you name all your horses after fish?"

"Yes. They're all named Roach." He indicated the next dummy, mimicking his earlier shot. "What is your full name?"

"Iorveth Cynwrig ar Carwynpredd." Another hit. "Why Roach?"

"That's quite a name." Geralt looked askance at Iorveth. "Why the "ar"?"

"You already asked your question for this round, witcher, now answer mine."

Geralt sighed. "I don't know. It's something I remember being called when I was very small, but I can't remember who by. Vesimir never liked it much, and wouldn't talk about it."

He struggled to shoot quite as well as the last two, primarily due to Iorveth's question, but he still hit true. "Now, about the name."

Iorveth sighed. "It's like "of", but possessive. Most elves haven't got a reason to be "ar" anything these days. We haven't got land to belong to. My father was a younger son, and my mother an only child. Our home went to her, and so my sisters took the name of the estate. As the only son, I was given the same surname as my father, but tradition dictated I take my mother's as well."

"Elvish names mean things, don't they? No, don't tell me, let me practice. If "an" is "of", and Carwynpredd. Predd is a grove, and a Carwyn is something coveted."

Iorveth nodded, allowing the witcher to continue with an amused smile playing around his lips. Geralt mulled over the name further. "Cynwrig, Cynwrig, I think that's a hero of some kind. So, Iorveth, Hero of the Beloved Grove."

"Very good. You did miss one, though, arguably the most important. Let's see if you can figure it out."

Geralt pondered. "Veth I know, it's the Ior that's getting me. A veth is a lord. Or a willow tree."

The elf made a little noise. Geralt could almost have mistaken it for a laugh. "Not far off. In most cases, when it's a tree, it's said Weth, not Veth. Just some dialectical differences."

"I've heard Ior used before... I'll figure it out, later."

"Not going to ask me on your next shot?"

Geralt shook his head. "You can't bait me into wasting a question."

Iorveth smiled, matched his shot again, even the slightly wonky angle. "Do you enjoy this? Witchering?"

"Most of the time."

Geralt was running out dummies. He had no trouble with the fourth, but struggled for a question. He wanted to know more intimate details about the elf's life, before the scoia'tael. "What was it like, growing up like that?"

"Before the dh'oine fully fucked up everything elf kind held dear?"

Geralt nodded.

"I'd say... fun sums it up best. I wasn't carefree, we were already facing the start of something vile and violent by the advent of my birth, but I could still imagine what it was to _be_ without care."

He squared his shoulders and drew the bow. "We're deviating into gloomy territory, I think." His arrow landed through to the fletching. "Who was your first man?"

"Saskia's father."

"WHAT?"

The witcher couldn't keep himself from smiling a little. "Wait your turn, Iorveth." The elf stared at him as Geralt landed his shot. "Yours?"

"Tiernan Y'nfael. He's been dead for a while." Without taking his eyes off of Geralt, Iorveth lifted his bow and shot. Geralt watched the arrow's flight. It landed squarely where the dummy's heart would be, passed through it, and hit the stone wall behind.

"Explain."

"In my defense, I didn't know it was her father at the time. He was going by "Borch Three Jackdaws." This was, oh, twenty-some-odd years ago? Maybe more. It's hard to tell how old dragons are."

He set his bow down. Iorveth did not do the same. "We met up on the road, going the same way. He'd been traveling with two Zirrekanian women. We all drank together, there was an inn, and the four of us did what came naturally."

It had come very naturally indeed to the witcher. Geralt had done his fair share of servicing all three of them that night, and they him. "Later, he nearly killed a few people defending a little dragon chick. Saskia let me know who she was during Henselt's invasion, and I put two and two together in Loc Muinne."

"Does she know?"

He shook his head. "No. Wasn't the time."

Iorveth nodded sagely. "Yes. I'd save a surprise like that for something like a coronation, or a funeral."

"Seems appropriate." Geralt looked out across the yard. "I think we can call you the better marksman based on your last shot. That's a hell of a bow."

Iorveth hefted it into his hand. "It is. Technically a family heirloom, but I've replaced most of it over the years. That's what happens if you use something constantly."

"May I?"

Iorveth hesitated for a moment before letting the witcher take the bow. Geralt turned it over in his hands, marveling over the craftsmanship. "I've seen maybe one bow to rival this one. An old friend had one made of mahogany and whalebone. I thought I'd never see it's equal, but here you are, challenging all expectations."

Iorveth couldn't help but puff up a bit at the praise. "It sounds like she has excellent taste. Who was she?"

The witcher turned the bow over and over in his hands. "Milva. She died. Died helping me."

"An elf?" Her name had a familiar ring to it.

Geralt shook his head. "No. A human woman." paused to reconsider. "If I'm honest, she'd rather have been called a hunter before anything else."

The witcher hefted the bow into his hand. It was heavier than anticipated.

Iorveth nodded, following Geralt's movements as the witcher lifted his arms and made to pull back the bowstring.

Geralt's muscles strained against the massive thing, yew resisting him and threatening to snap the gut-woven string back into place with each inch he gained. He managed to draw back to his lip, holding an archer's position for mere moments before letting go. His fingers ached from the effort.

"What's the draw weight on this monster?"

Iorveth reached over and plucked his bow away, slinging it over his shoulder. "Just over twenty stone, I believe."

When Iorveth used his bow, it moved with fluid grace in his hands. Geralt had never seen the elf struggle once, not in the deep heat of battle when the witcher's shoulders ached from his sword's weight, not when the battle had waged so long that other men could barely aim.

He goggled at the elf.

Iorveth closed the space between them, surprising Geralt with a kiss.

"I'm honored to have humbled you so. You bragged so prettily, I was worried there would be no grace in your failure." Iorveth made his way back into the keep, Geralt watching him go.

How was it that Geralt learned more about Iorveth from a bowstring's twang than any question the witcher managed to ask?

Autumn settled in, and no-one questioned Iorveth’s presence or Geralt’s resolve to interrogate the status of life in the keep. The three men settled into a routine- All would rise early, work would be done, food eaten, and then more work. Evening came earlier each day. Iorveth would bring in something to eat, Vesimir and Geralt would procure the herbs and drinks suitable to witcher pallets, and they would settle in of an evening over a pipe and vodka. More often than not, Geralt and Iorveth would spend the night in each other’s arms and, in some capacity, inside each other.

During the day Geralt rarely saw Iorveth. Vesimir, operating under the correct assumption that they’d prevent each other from doing anything useful, tended to assign them to different parts of the building. He didn’t mind them engaging in romantic activities, but he preferred they happen after he’d gone to bed. The chance of walking in on something awkward was never zero, but he preferred to keep the odds low.

Today, Iorveth had been sent, vaguely, "to deal with a masonry problem." Kaer Morhen suffered masonry issues in every nook and cranny, and Geralt had to wonder if his mentor had been intentionally vague to get Geralt out of the way. He found Iorveth eventually, sequestered atop a tower Geralt hadn't been up in decades due to a collapsed staircase. He followed the even scrape-clack, scrape-clack, of mortar and stone up the winding steps.

Vesimir had made valiant attempts at repair, and Geralt could see where the old man had figured out a better bricklaying pattern, or finally figured out how to smooth the binding between bricks. Someone would have to re-do the work one day, but it was good enough for now.

He found Iorveth knelt on the last step, perched precariously on a ledge. The top of what had been the tower no longer existed.

"Of course. You can lay bricks. I shouldn't be surprised anymore."

Iorveth sat back and inclined his head towards a lower step, indicating that Geralt ought to sit. The witcher complied. "In more idealistic times I fell in with a group of, I suppose you might call them free-thinkers. They were of the opinion that we all ought to have a hand in rebuilding." He picked up a brick and laid it on the wet lime-water mixture, patting it in place. "Literally, in some cases. They seemed to think we could go back to all those ruins and put them back together again."

"A noble idea."

Iorveth looked down at his hands, painted grey-white with the fruits of his labors. "Yes. Noble. Like most noble things, they petered out within five, maybe six years. Mostly they died. Similar groups persisted. I believe there was one in Dol Blathana years ago prattling on about the importance of creating elf-specific farm communities in an attempt to further elvish independence."

Geralt's memory flashed back to a field, years and miles away. He'd been distracted at the time due to considerable risk of death, but through the veil of time, he recalled the people beating him senseless being very concerned with crop rotation. "Would one of the persons involved in these agrarian pursuits be named Filavandrel, by chance?"

Iorveth rolled his eye and groaned. "That's him, the prissy fuck. Filavandrel aén Fidháil, a stuck-up bastard if there ever was one. His whole bloody family are like that, perfectly willing to come up with grand ideas and schemes, but couldn't be bothered to get some grit under their fingernails." He grimaced. Geralt couldn't help but wince a little. When Iorveth made that face, his scar twisted up something awful.

Stuck up bastard was not the epithet Geralt would have used. "I prefer "Self-righteous motherfucker." He tried to have me killed for foiling a plot to steal seeds and grain from humans."

Iorveth raised his eyebrows. "Did he now? Never thought he'd have the stomach for killing."

"I doubt he was planning to do it himself," Geralt leaned sideways just enough to bump his shoulder against Iorveth's. "Who's the woman that writes you letters again?"

Iorveth did not move away or say anything about Geralt's shoulder. "Toruviel, why?"

"Fond of gold necklaces? Distressingly pale? Fond of stabbing people and threatening to fill them full of arrows for a slow, painful death?"

"That does sound like her."

Geralt pushed further, letting his head fall onto Iorveth's shoulder. "She almost broke my leg, by kicking it." He smiled nastily. "How's her nose?"

Iorveth continued to say nothing of Geralt's physical attention. "Crooked. She never told me she'd served Filavandrel. Clever girl, she implied she'd been in some sort of prison before shacking up with our lot. To be fair, I would have done the same."

Geralt felt something on his hand. He didn't move, and Iorveth hooked his little finger over the witcher's. Bravery reared its head in Geralt. "What did you do, before the scoia'tael?"

Iorveth had to think about that one. "... Survived, I suppose. There wasn't much time in-between. One day we weren't fighting, and the next we were. I drifted a bit. The choice came down to lying down and waiting for someone to kill me, or going out to die with purpose." That's what they had done under Aelirenn. "We all had choices to make. The old ones, the Filivandrels, wanted to bide their time and wait for nature to fix itself and return elves to their natural place. The young wanted to fight and take the world back by force."

Geralt waited patiently to hear more.

"It didn't start that way. We thought that, if we fought, if we spilled blood, then eventually we'd win. That sacrifice came with a reward." He sighed. Geralt thought he felt the elf's weight shift, the tiniest amount of pressure leveraging into the witcher. "It didn't. We had to compromise, and even then, all we got was a barren land of barren elves witing to die. We knew the world was cruel. I don't think it ever occurred to us that it could also be unfair."

"How's that?"

Another pause as Iorveth pondered this. "If you grow up with everything handed to you, surrounded by only the beautiful and the perfect, with people who truly think they've earned all the best just by living, it can be hard to accept when it all comes crashing down. Our elders come from a time before humans. They think all of this-", Iorveth gestured vaguely to the concept of the outside world, "-is but a blip in the grand history of the universe. Now we have generations of elves too young to know what it's like to have a world designed to love you, but who have still been taught that the world is somehow, fundamentally, skewing in our favor, even as we lose and die. We've been lied to by our own lived history. We're just as likely to go extinct as any other creature that lives. There is never any guarantee of a homeland, or peace, without working for it."

Geralt nodded. "Having Aedirn goes a long way to evening the odds in your favor."

"It does." Geralt was certain Iorveth leaned into him this time. "I lost that idealism for a long time. I fought, I killed, I burned. One day, I would go on a mission and wouldn't come back. That day has yet to come. I think my superiors saw that dedication and mistook it for vigor." Iorveth's heart grew tight. "My throat is dry, and I've work to finish. Stay if you wish, but let's not talk more on politics."

He extracted himself from Geralt quickly, taking up the mason's tools and setting back to bricklaying. Geralt sat, a little dumbfounded, groping for anything to keep the momentum going.

"Once Ciri told me she thought it looked like a giant had marched through here," he indicated the broken tower. "Said it looked like it had come strolling through the mountains and had kicked the top off."

Iorveth paused to level an inscrutable look at the witcher. "Did that happen?"

"No. No, this happened back during my training days." He thumped the nearest wall, pleased to see nothing come loose. "We were having a shared trial, you could say. We Wolves and the members of the School of the Cat. It ended up being a ploy to get us all together for the slaughter, barely any witchers survived. At the time, the king had decided witchers were more of a potential liability than we were worth."*

"Really? I can't see witchers being that easy to kill, especially two entire schools."

Geralt shrugged. "They had magic, and planning, and numbers on their side. Another attack followed shortly thanks to a large circulation of anti-witcher propaganda, and yet another about three years ago."

That would explain why the Kaer Morhen seemed to be eternally crumbling. "Pity."

"Mm. Vesimir certainly thinks it is."

"Surely you do, too?"

Geralt shrugged, passing Iorveth a brick. "It's the way of things. The world has monsters, yes, but mages and everyday pricks are learning to deal with them. Beasts are going extinct, and people have to make up monsters for witchers to hunt more often than not. If witchers survive, we do. If we don't, we go the way of any other extinct profession." He nodded to the keep. "I don't see a dozen young men running around, taking potions and scaling walls. Do you? Nobody wants to send their children to be witchers, and we aren't in the business of recruiting these days."

"Fair enough."

_Cynwrig,_

_You are not beholden to all parts of my life, and if I neglected to inform you of one afternoon amongst thousands, that is not a failing on my part. Yes, I had a run-in with your witcher, and yes, I was involved with the Free Elves in Dol Blathanna. Whatever else happened is all my concern and none of yours._

_As you continue to reject my suggestions, I am forced to tell you that I have no updates on your situation. My mentor is aware of your continuing issues, and she feels you ought to accept your lot in life. Tradition is tradition, after all._

_Expect letters to continue slowly. That horrid woman has begun a correspondence with me as well, and I am growing exhausted. I've a wounded shoulder and bum hip, when will you people leave a woman to convalesce?_

_Saskia sends her hellos. She has taken up with a dwarf. I cannot tell if they are a man or woman, but they have the bushiest beard I've ever seen and the two seem happy._

_The leaves have begun to turn, and I am finding the color red no longer reminds me of battlefields, nor does green call to mind our camouflage. I still dream of war, but that shall likely continue until I return to the earth._

_There may be hope for you as well._

_-Toruviel_

"I have a question."

Iorveth looked up from his letter, scowling. Nearly every letter had come with a new and gruesome ritual that could, technically, solve the issue. It concerned him how many involved separating a Seov that the caster was not in, implying many unhappy elvish parents had gone to great lengths to prevent unfavorable matches.

"You've always got questions, Geralt."

"True, but I only voice some of them. Where did you learn to sew?"

Iorveth returned to his letter, scoffing. "Where anyone learns. My mother taught me. Surely your other conquests could do the same."

Geralt shook his head. "No. Most sorceresses just enchant needles."

"Hm. My mother believed that everyone ought to know three things. One, how to cook. Two, how to sew. Three, how to survive without provisions in the forest for at least a week on the understanding that no-one would come looking for you."

"I can understand the first two."

Iorveth nodded. "Yes, a week was far too short a time. My mother was an optimistic woman."

Geralt looked up from his stack of letters. Every old friend he remembered, he'd written to. Most had written back. Slowly he pieced together the state of the world outside of Iorveth and Vesimir's realm of knowledge, a third Nilfgaard war percolating outside. "You talk about her often."

"Mmm. I hadn't noticed."

Geralt watched Iorveth, tilting back in his chair. "Were you not close with your father?"

The elf sighed and tore himself away from reading and re-reading Toruviel's letter, setting it down atop a well-loved copy of "Manifestations and Maleficience: Creatures of Nightmare". "Yes, and no. He was a quiet man, and I don't think he knew what to do with children. Didn't fit the surname too well. My uncles were much bolder men." He crossed his arms, head tilting back in thought. "He was very bookish. Exactly the sort of man you'd want negotiating peace contracts with dh'oine. He knew the old laws and histories like the back of his hand." His eyes slid shut. "More's the pity that he got beheaded."

Geralt did not reply. Iorveth rolled his head over to look at the witcher. "Idealists without the conviction to change their plans don't live very long. That is the best lesson he ever taught me."

Iorveth woke up in pain and nearly-screaming more nights than he did not. The dreams did not stop, and the nights grew ever colder. He half expected to see his breath billowing white when he woke, constantly relieved to find the palest thing in the room was still the witcher. It pleased him that Geralt's nightmares had stopped. He wished he could replicate the trick.

It was always Isengrim. Always in that horrific armor, shiny and cold to the touch. He'd resigned himself to the pain, determined not to give the ghost of his commander satisfaction.

One night, when he'd worn out the witcher as best he could, Iorveth was once again roused from sleep filled with malice. Each dream drained the fear from him and replaced it, inch by inch, with rage. He marched to the library and began frantically pulling every book off the shelf he could find that could relate to ghosts, or dreams, or possessions, or hauntings.

Geralt missed him in the morning. He wandered high and low, finding the elf passed out in a chair, books splayed over the floor.

He shook Iorveth awake, narrowly dodging a swung fist. "Whoa, hey, there's no call for that."

Iorveth blinked the sleep from his eyes, groggily processing his surroundings and company. "Sorry. Bad dreams." He got up and stretched, wincing as his shoulders popped. "I didn't want to wake you up."

"Sure. That's why you've got... "A Treatise on Spiritual Vengeance and the Studies Thereof." Nightmares."

Iorveth shook his head. "No, that's why I've got-" He picked up one of the books he'd been reading before passing out, "-"On Nightmares: Visions of Despair and the Darkness within"."

Geralt sighed, gathering books off the ground. "You're in Kaer Morhen, you sleep next to a witcher every night, and instead of talking to me, you've decided to exhaust yourself in the library reading about ghosts. I know you told me to trust you, but you make it hard sometimes."

Iorveth flinched. "Excuse me for trying to take care of myself. I shall be sure to defer to you every time something begins to go the least bit wrong, Master Witcher."

A flicker of annoyance passed over Geralt's face but went as quickly as it came. "You don't have to tell me everything. This just seems like a witcher problem."

Iorveth stared at him, unblinking, weighing his options. Finally, his shoulders relaxed, arms crossing over his chest. "They're vivid nightmares. Not normal. My bad dreams are always things that have happened before. Memories. They're never anything new." He flexed his hand. It still ached. "I'd say it's the same dream, but that's not true. It's the same scenario, every time, but the words and the actions are different."

"Tell me." Geralt placed his hand on Iorveth's back lightly. He could feel the knots in the elf's muscles. Iorveth didn't reply, not for a long while.

Eventually, he found his tongue. "They start the same. I'm alone, and it's dark. Usually, I'm injured." It was always his eye. He knew that. "I'll see someone. The same someone." He brushed Geralt's arm away. "This is ridiculous. I'm having nightmares. We all have nightmares, I'm sleep-deprived, and I grabbed any books that looked applicable through the haze of madness."

Geralt reached out again instinctually, stopping just short of the elf's arm. "If it's recurring, and you can't sleep, it's a problem. So it isn't a ghost problem, but maybe there's a medical solution. Herbs, tinctures, things like that."

Iorveth gestured with one of the books. "What is it you think I was looking for? I'm not keen on getting exorcized only for everyone to discover I've got nothing to worry about but myself." He ran a hand through his hair. "I need to get dressed, get something to eat, and do... something with my time."

Iorveth bid the witcher good morning and left the room. For the second time in as many days, Geralt watched the elf walk away. He started picking through the books, picking up more pieces in the puzzle that was Iorveth.

Steam filled the second-best room in Kaer Morhen as Iorveth walked in at evening's end. He hadn't expected such a luxury, nor did he think he deserved it. It bothered him how easily he'd snapped at Geralt, and he'd come up intending to deliver some kind of apology. How the witcher had managed to get a tub of this size up the stairs without Iorveth noticing he did not know, but it was an impressive feat nonetheless.

"There are worse ways to let a man know he stinks."

Geralt turned towards Iorveth. "You manage to turn everything into an insult. We've progressed beyond it being a skill to a pathology." He walked towards Iorveth, hesitant. "Hot baths are good for sleep. And for muscle tension. Vesimir has been working you to the bone since we arrived."

"So that is for me." He was grateful beyond words to find his apology interrupted. "Thank you." Voicing gratitude did not feel adequate. Iorveth rubbed the back of his neck. Geralt's attempts at physical affection outside the bedroom hadn't been lost on him.

Iorveth closed the gap, stepping forwards to awkwardly embrace the witcher. Geralt did not resist and leaned into him, wrapping his arms around Iorveth in turn.

It wasn't a very pleasant hug, save for that Iorveth was giving it. The elf squeezed a bit too hard, and his arms were a bit too stiff, but all in all, Geralt couldn't complain too much. He wouldn't mind staying this way for a while if only to savor Iorveth's monumental efforts, but Geralt would not have his work spoiled. Eventually, he disentangled himself, jerking his head towards the tub. "It's getting cold. Come on, out of the clothes." Geralt tugged at the edge of the elf's tunic.

"So demanding!" Iorveth teased. "Excited to get me naked? You are wicked, witcher."

"Not as excited as you are to strip for me." Geralt pulled up a chair, setting to undoing his boots. Iorveth took note with creeping delight. He could deal with both of them being naked. He knew how that worked.

"Will you be joining me?"

The witcher raised his head. Iorveth had removed his belt, but no more. Geralt nodded. "Someone has to keep you from drowning in the tub. What better place to prevent such a tragedy than in it?"

"Performing yet another public service. I ought to find a way to thank you." He sidled up to Geralt, resting a hand on his shoulder. The bath radiated heat, as did the fire in the grate, warming the room and the bodies within it. Iorveth leaned in, letting his weight settle on the witcher. He did like looming over Geralt. It guaranteed a lovely view.

Geralt took Iorveth's free hand, turning it to bring his rough palm to meet the witcher's lips. "I can think of a few things." He kissed the mound of Iorveth's palm. "First, I would like to see you take your clothes off." He worked his way up to the wrist. "Settle into the bath," he paused, rising to his full height. It only affected Iorveth so much, seeing as the elf still had a full three or four inches on Geralt, but he did appreciate the effort.

"And?" Iorveth could not hide the intrigue in his voice.

"And..." Geralt looked up at Iorveth, his voice taking on a sultry tone that Iorveth had never heard before, and he wasn't sure he ever wanted to hear again. "I want you to sit and relax for once, which you're going to do; otherwise, I'll have put all this hard work to waste."

The witcher could see Iorveth's brain processing the disconnect between Geralt's tone and what he said. For half a breath, Geralt worried his little ploy had been more frustrating than tantalizing. He considered apologizing until Iorveth huffed petulantly. "Fine, fine, you win. But I won't pretend to be happy."

Geralt smiled, releasing Iorveth's wrist. "I wouldn't ask you to."

They stripped in silence. Iorveth approached the tub and paused at the edge, challenging Geralt to get in first. The witcher did not, crossing his arms and nodding to the water. "I can stand here until it gets cold. Don't doubt me."

"I don't, I don't. Melitele's tits, you're stubborn."

"I'm stubborn? You're at least my equal there. I'm not the one resisting a _bath_."

Iorveth stepped into the tub, poorly concealing a wince at the heat. "You're planning on boiling me alive, I see your game now." He lowered himself slowly, bracing against the wood, as his muscles began to relax and unravel. He did need to do this more often. The warmth went a long way to negating how much wear Iorveth was putting on his body these days. An old elf in a young elf's skin, that was Geralt's assessment of him all those weeks ago. He wasn't wrong.

Eventually, he settled in, leaning back against the tub's edge, tilting his head back and shutting his eye. He waited. There ought to be a splash, a disturbance, as Geralt got in to join him. No such thing happened. Instead, he heard the witcher's footsteps, and a chair dragging behind him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Helping."

He twisted his head and could just see the witcher place a basin of water and a pitcher on the ground. "I'm not sure I like where this is going."

"Too bad. Lean forward."

Iorveth did not lean forward. Instead, he twisted, as best he could to glare at Geralt. "I'm not a babe in arms, nor an invalid, nor a dog you can scrub without heeding his complaints. I am perfectly capable of cleaning myself." He couldn't read the witcher's expression. Geralt stood by the chair, waiting.

"This is true. You're a stubborn son of a bitch, and I like that about you. But I'm someone who wants to touch you." He settled into the chair. Iorveth made to retort that Geralt touched him frequently, but Geralt talked over him quickly. "I want to touch you when we're not fucking."

He clasped his hands together, head dropping slightly. "I want to touch you outside of the bedroom." He swallowed hard. "I don't have to touch you all the time," he lied, desperately wanting that, "But you have to let me take care of you somehow, and if you have to pretend it's the worst thing in the world, I will start to feel..."

He groped for a word. "... Lonely. I will start to feel lonely. So please, let me do this."

Iorveth blinked at the witcher, then turned, sliding forward in the tub. "Fine. You may. But let me dump water on my own head the first time around. It's uncomfortable letting someone else do that."

"Of course." Geralt passed Iorveth the pitcher, which he declined.

Geralt set it back on the ground, watching, adoring. Geralt had seen many people bathe in front of him, and most put a great deal of effort into looking as beautiful as possible. Iorveth didn't have to.

Iorveth gripped the sides of the tub, gasped, and plunged his head under the water. Geralt waited, counting the seconds until Iorveth rocketed out of the water. The witcher watched rivulets of water flow down Iorveth's skin, the particular tilt of his head as he drew breath.

"Interesting technique."

"Oh fuck off," Iorveth scowled at Geralt over his shoulder. "What do you want me to do now?"

Geralt settled onto the rickety chair and gestured for Iorveth to get closer. The elf leaned back again, letting his head dangle over the edge of the tub. Water dripped onto the floor around Geralt's feet. He pulled the chair closer, knees on either side of the tub, Iorveth's head nearly in the witcher's lap. "I'm going to touch your head. A lot."

"I assumed that, but I do appreciate the warning." He grinned, upside- down, at Geralt. The witcher's heart did a strange little flip. From the collection of bath items on the ground, Geralt selected a half-full plain vial of something viscous and deep, dark green. A guest had left it at Kaer Morhen, Geralt couldn't remember who or how long ago. He had recalled where it was, though, and for that memory, Geralt thanked himself.

As soon as the stopper came out, the room began to fill with the heady aroma of verbena.

"Of course it's verbena," Iorveth muttered, trying to un-tense his neck muscles in preparation for Geralt's hands. The wait was torturous.

"You don't like it?"

"No, not that. It's a familiar smell, is all."

Geralt wet his hands in the little basin on the floor and poured a dollop of the elixir on his hands, coating his palms and fingers.

Geralt's touch affected Iorveth immediately. He leaned into the strong hands massaging and rubbing the oil into his scalp and dark hair.

Iorveth's spine unraveled. He stretched his legs out in the hot tub, almost collapsing and sliding under the water in shock. What work bathing had started, Geralt's hands finished. He allowed his eye to drift shut, losing himself in the gentle, rhythmic motions of Geralt's hands.

The elf did have lovely hair. Geralt was no less mesmerized than Iorveth, watching with deep-seated pleasure as the elf melted into a puddle under his hands. Such a big reaction for something so small. Iorveth must be tired. There had not been much relaxing at the temple. The elf had worked sunup to sundown on treatments and therapies for his maladies. Geralt hadn't been present for everything Iorveth did in Vergen, but he was certain Iorveth worked much and slept little then as well.

"Think you could get used to this?" Geralt asked.

"No, no, I don't think I could," Iorveth replied sleepily. "I don't think having a witcher bathe me could ever lose that exciting, decadent edge."

This pleased the witcher. "I never thought of myself as decadent."

"You think incorrectly, then. You're positively indulgent."

Geralt could only reasonably soap Iorveth's head for so long. "Do you plan to dunk yourself again, or may I rinse?"

In response, Iorveth slid forward until his head dipped underwater. Geralt watched the little bubbles from his breath slowly join the floating soap flotsam. Iorveths hair looked like dark, writhing weeds on the sea-floor. What would it look like long, Geralt wondered.

Iorveth surfaced with hair stuck to his face. Geralt reached down instinctively to brushing away the bit covering Iorveth's single, piercing green eye. Geralt was struck once again by how young an elf could look, and how much character the scar gave Iorveth's face.

"You can't stop coddling me, can you?"

Geralt saw the barest twitch of a smile threatening the edge of Iorveth's mouth, or he would have thought Iorveth was angry with him. "You're just so easy to take care of, I can't help myself."

"Regular delicate flower, me."

Looking up at the witcher felt strange. Iorveth let the moment stretch out, something building within him. Without warning, Iorveth reached up, the hand gripping the back of the witcher's head. He pulled Geralt down and kissed him. Geralt nearly lost his balance and fell, but stabilized in time to lean into the kiss. Iorveth felt so warm and tasted like water, with the barest hint of soap. They tilted their heads, leaning into one another and speaking the secret language of two people whose bodies knew each other better than their mouths could say.

When Geralt pulled back Iorveth had flushed, just a bit, on his cheeks and the very tips of his pointed ears. He couldn't help but find it endearing. "I didn't know you could blush."

Iorveth scowled. "Of course I can, what-"

"Do it again." Geralt kissed Iorveth this time, cupping the elf's chin to tilt his head back slightly. When he pulled back Geralt saw his ploy had been effective, pink spreading further across Iorveth's face. "I was beginning to think you might be made of marble."

Iorveth wanted to scrub his cheeks, to wipe away the heat he could feel. "We can't all have the benefits of witcher mutations to keep our secrets. Some of us require years of careful calculation to keep our vulnerabilities in check." He gritted his teeth, yet more frustrated to have admitted being vulnerable. He moved and sat up straight, forcing Geralt to sit back. "Would that everyone possessed your emotional armor, it would save the trouble of being caught out. Pass me some soap."

"It's not as beneficial as you would hope." Geralt handed over a bar, watching as Iorveth began to scrub himself vigorously. Iorveth did not inquire further, but that did not mean Geralt would not say more. He was getting used to the idea of volunteering information without prompting. "I can see when I've affected you. I can feel your heart race." He watched Iorveth clench the soap bar harder. "I saw that, too. And heard your teeth grinding. You don't like being observed, but I can't help it. Just like I can't stop trying to help you, if you look like you're struggling."

Iorveth cupped water in his hand, pouring it over his skin to rinse the soap away. "... I don't make it easy, do I?"

"That you do not."

"So why must you continue to try?"

Geralt's hands itched to touch Iorveth again. "Because I want to. I hope that isn't too hard to understand, I can't explain any better. I just want to." He eyed Iorveth's back. Somehow the elf had managed to fix, and even add to, his old tattoos. How Geralt did not know, but he suspected there must be a mirror he didn't know about somewhere. Something about the shape of the flowers and vines tickled the witcher's brain just so. The shape of it, branches about leaves and thick, lush foliage fascinated him. If one focused, enough one could pick out animals peeking out from the dense forest of black ink. Here a foxes face, there a rabbit's legs, a deer's antlers, and a myriad of birds and other sundry beasts. The branches which crept up Iorveth's neck hardly did the rest justice. Secrets lay beneath the elf's clothing, which Geralt felt immeasurably privileged to be privy to.

Geralt didn't notice how quiet he was. The silence started to grate on Iorveth as he ran out of places to scrub.

"I came up here to say something," he finally began, breaking the spell of silence. "I was not fair to you this morning. You want to help, and I often do not want help, but I should give you a bit more leeway, sometimes." Iorveth turned around, sloshing water out of the sides of the tub. He wanted to look the witcher in the eyes for this, if only to bore the apology into his own brain as a lesson. "I am sorry. I'd planned to ask for forgiveness, but clearly, I didn't need to ask for it." Thus his apology was made all the worse. He found it far less humiliating to apologize to an angry person. They were more likely to make mistakes and thus prove that Iorveth had been correct in whatever behavior had prompted the apology in the first place.

Geralt didn't speak for a moment. Iorveth, agitated, did. "Well?”

“I suppose I can forgive you. Providing…”

“Yes, yes, providing?”

Geralt stood up, sliding off the rest of his clothes and stepping into the bath, settling in across from Iorveth.

“Providing you scrub my back.”

Iorveth relaxed. “But of course.”

“You cannot cook.”

“Not can’t. I just don’t like to. Or have any skill.”

Iorveth wrinkled his nose at the witcher. “Of all people, you ought to know that skill is earned. Innate talent is only part of the equation. Your butchery is sloppy at best, and I am unwilling to let you continue to shame both of us through your lack.” He shoved a knife at the witcher. “Take this, sit down, and listen.”

Geralt obeyed. He’d spent too long with witchers and sorceresses, it seemed. Meals at Kaer Morhen were uncomplicated, and he hadn’t known any magic-user to cook for themselves. He could tolerate rations. Tolerable was good enough for him.

Vesimir knew better than to hang around when Iorveth marched into the kitchens, practically dragging Geralt by the collar. He’d made himself politely scarce, despite Geralt’s pleading look not to be left alone with a frustrated Scoia’tael and many, many knives. He shouldn’t have been too worried, Iorveth wasn’t planning to kill him, just torture him a bit.

Iorveth slammed a handful of something green and leafy onto the table. “This is Sorrel. I presume you know what this is?”

Geralt nodded.

“Good. With all the herbs you witchers, I had hoped as much. It’s a bit bitter and tangy.” He nodded to the knife in Geralt’s hands. “Chop it. Neatly.”

He did his best. For all the witcher’s skills with a sword, he hadn’t practiced the precise movements necessary to make food look pretty. Iorveth didn’t comment on his technique, just grabbed his own bundle and let the witcher watch before handing Geralt some more sorrel.

Geralt observed and improved, if only slightly. “Good. Have you eaten this before?”

“Yes. Not here, but yes.”

“Interesting. There’s a patch of sorrel maybe one hundred feet from the back tower, very hard to miss.” Iorveth set about slicing strips of venison to prepare them for cooking. He had plans to salt and smoke the rest of the carcass, and hang it in the anemic barrel stores he’d discovered. The witchers would be well prepared for winter this year. “You’ve an abundance of plants and vegetables, and yet if you had your way all you’d have would be dry meat, burned turnips, and under seasoned stew.” He started in on something else green, this one earthy and heady as the elf separated tiny green leaves from stems. “Marjoram is delicious. Do all dh’oine treat food like a chore, or is there some penance you’ve elected to undergo that forbids salt and pepper?”

Geralt shrugged. “I like food. Never saw much of a point in trying to make something good on the path when I could spend a few copper and not have to do the work myself.”

“That is, I’m afraid, not a universal experience. I have not purchased a meal in decades, nor would I be welcome to do so if I had decided to try. You’ll forgive me for not accepting your answer.” This time Iorveth pushed a small pile of mushrooms towards Geralt. “You could save your coin for other things, if you knew how to feed yourself better.”

Geralt couldn’t help but recall a similar conversation he’d had, years ago. Dandelion childed him for not knowing when to stir a stew of fresh-caught fish, vegetation, and herbs collected by Regis, prepared by Cahir and Milva. Eating and cooking good food for others made sense. It was something to share. Doing the same for himself felt like a waste of time and energy he could be using to find work and fulfill his duties.

He said as much.

“You offend the concept of dining with your thinking. You think you’re the only one involved when you commit such crimes against good taste? Bah. Beauty is its own reward, and beauty exists in all things. If you have the option and potential to elevate, and you instead choose to make something disgusting, that is a cardinal sin.”

Perhaps it should have dawned on Geralt that elves would take food as seriously as any other form of artistic expression. When one’s culture finds beauty, all beauty, central, that must mean “all beauty”.

That did raise yet more questions.

“Why the sudden concern? You haven’t complained about the food before.”

With a wet and slightly sickening “slap”, Iorveth dropped another hunk of deer flesh onto the table and set to it.

“What day is it?” He finally said, after Geralt had begun to wonder if Iorveth would ever speak again. Geralt had to think about it.

“It’s near the equinox, I think.”

“Yes. Tomorrow is the day itself, in fact.”

“You never struck me as someone who cared a lot about harvest festivals. Learn something new every day.”

Iorveth sighed through his nose. “I don’t care about them. I do care about my people’s holy days and holidays.”

Logically, Geralt was aware that Lughnasadh wasn’t a celebration day that humans had begun on their own, and he knew that the celebration’s name was in the Elvish tongue. It had not occurred, however, that Iorveth might care about it, nor had he wondered enough to discover how humans and elves differed by tradition. Once, long ago, he might’ve found some vague mention of it discussed as a minor feast day for the elves prior to human conquest, but that was all.

“So it isn’t a harvest celebration?”

“No. It is not.”

Geralt had learned Iorveth rarely surrendered information without some prompting. He pushed harder. “So what is it, then?”

Iorveth scooped up the meat and plopped it into a shallow kettle, fat sizzling as it landed on the metal he’d been heating over the great (and often unused) kitchen hearth. “Before the Aen Seidhe came to this place, we lived elsewhere. No-one living remembers what that place was like, but it was strange, and wonderful, and full of great danger. In that place before there was a man. A god.”

Geralt abandoned his chopping task to listen.

“This man, who was a god, had a mother.”

“Most people do.”

Iorveth shot a smirk over his shoulder at Geralt. “Most, yes. This man had a mother, a foster mother, particularly. She taught him everything he knew, so many things that he was known as the Man All-Skilled. One day, after many years of adventuring, his mother died.” Into the pot went the marjoram, sage, and some salt. Geralt’s mouth watered at the smell. “The man was heartbroken, and on the Autumn Solstice he organized a great celebration in her honor. There was spear-throwing, games of chance and balance, and all the things one could do to prove one’s worth. That day all celebrated skill in her memory, and in his name. Thus, it is Lughnasadh, the day of Lugh the All-Skilled.”

He grabbed a ladle from it’s hook, stirring something he’d arranged in a pot. It was spicy, and smelled hardy. “In my childhood we would light a fire to leap over, and we’d show off what we’d learned that year. Yes, there were harvests, but that too was meant to celebrate the skill of the grower, the hunter, the forager, the cook.”

“I thought Beltane was the festival with the fire?”

“Lughnasadh is, too, as well as Imbolc and Saovine. Fires for the Autumn and Winter, to drive back the dark. Fires for the Spring and Summer, to celebrate the sun. We’re very fond of fire.”

Geralt made a noise of agreement. “Humans, too.”

“We have that in common.”

Lids were placed on pots, and they were left to cook. Iorveth dragged a stool out from under the table with his foot and sat upon it. “I have not spent a Lughnasadh away from elves in many years, nor one where I was not at war, nor fleeing, since taking up the sword in service of the elvish resistance. It didn’t feel right to go without doing something.” He rested his elbow on the table, pensive, and his chin in his hand. “I started meeting young ones who didn’t know the story about three decades ago. They only knew the dh’oine stories, of Melitele and the harvests. It cut me to the quick.”

“I’m older than that, and I didn’t know either.” He felt deeply guilty, somehow. Iorveth kept his voice neutral and calm, and that made it worse. Geralt awkwardly wrapped his arm around Iorveth’s shoulders and squeezed. “It’s good you remember. Thank you, for telling me. Although,” he looked pointedly at his sadly prepared sorrel, “I think my skills might be offensive to this Lugh. Do you think he was good at chopping vegetables?”

Iorveth let his head fall sideways onto Geralt’s shoulder. “Impeccable at it. It’s the thought that counts. We’ll learn you practical skills yet.”

“I’m counting on it. Now, what do I do next? Vesemir gets grouchy if he doesn’t know there’s food coming before sunset.”

Iorveth pressed a short, sharp kiss to the witcher’s cheek, rising quickly before anyone could mention it. “First, you’re going to help me gather some more herbs. That’s not nearly enough to feed three grown men, and you ought to know what’s in your own back yard. C’mon, today, you will learn something.”

With a smile Geralt followed into the biting autumn evening. Winter was coming on the winds.

_Toruviel,_

_I have changed my plans._

_I ~~lo~~ _

~~_I have fa_ ~~

~~_I feel that I lo_ ~~

_I have grown very fond of him. Beyond whatever this magic is. I want to guarantee that, whatever happens, I can continue in the fashion I am rapidly becoming accustomed. If there is any way to do that, I will._

_Cynwrig_

_Cynwrig_

_You are an idiot. I told you you didn’t need to do anything. Why you are so dedicated to avoiding something that you clearly want, I do not know. No one, ever, has tried to break a Seov they wanted without any kind of outside reason to do so. Whatever asinine purpose this serves, abandon it. Be happy that the magics of this world saw fit to gift you thusly. I may never find such joy, and here you are, trying to throw it away. Your vatt’ghern will never leave you or see reason._

_Be grateful._

_Toruviel_


	17. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The issues of Iorveth's dreams come to a head... Who is the Black Rider, really? Geralt makes some serious mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHA THIS IS SO LONG  
> Also I'm going through and editing the rest of the fic for grammatical errors, spelling, formatting, and a bit of content. The longer this gets and the further into my plot we get, the more dedicated I am to removing continuity errors. Remember, leaving comments gains you my eternal loyalty!

They wintered there, at the castle. Geralt grew more enamored of Iorveth with each passing day, and more concerned for his well being. Iorveth slept in the library occasionally, prompting Geralt to leave warm blankets in the room whenever possible. He excused it as forgetfulness, allowing Iorveth to accept the charity. Neither Eskel nor Lambert returned during that freezing season, both electing to weather the weather with more interesting characters than their fellow witchers. Geralt felt grateful for that. He wasn't sure how to introduce yet another non-witcher to them. 

Another night spent lying in bed alone sent Geralt tossing and turning, unable to close his eyes for more than a moment. Outside, the wind howled and screamed, and Geralt could finally feel the ache coming back to his injured bones. To be sure, a cold comfort but at least some proof that the past had happened as he'd remembered. The empty pillow beside him mocked Geralt. He couldn't take it anymore, rising suddenly 

and throwing on whatever clothes came to hand first. 

He made his way down the cold flagstones, through inky halls, and finally found his way to the library's yawning archway. A single candle flickered wickedly, threatening to go out at any moment. Iorveth lay slumped on a table, surrounded by scrolls and books as per usual. What was not usual was the dark figure looming over him.

In a split second the witcher sprinted across the floor. He hoped, desperate, that he would only find Vesemir kindly and pleasantly trying to rouse the elf. He knew it was not. 

It was tall, at least as tall as Iorveth. In the darkness, even with his nocturnal vision, he fancied the figure as the specter of death come for Geralt's lover. The whatever-it-was heard him, jerking suddenly to its full height and raising a clawed gauntlet. Geralt was nearly upon him when the figure vanished in a haze of freezing, gray smoke. Vainly Geralt tried to catch fistfuls of smoky moonlight, nearly tumbling onto the floor.

Iorveth made no sound. He simply lay, cold and fair, upon the table. The witcher's priorities shifted rapidly from catching the creature to discovering what harm it might have done. He nearly hissed at the cold touch of Iorveth's skin against his. Frost coated the elf's eyelashes. Fear turned Geralt's insides almost as cold as Iorveth's outsides. Geralt didn't think. He grabbed Iorveth in his arms- an awkward bundle to be sure- and rushed towards the fireplace. 

He magicked it to life, nearly exploding the logs inside with his fumbled sign. He lay the elf close as possible, inches from the flames. Blessed be his past self for putting blankets in the room. He swaddled Iorveth tight, clutching him as close as he dared. Iorveth still had a heartbeat, but it beat so slowly. 

The color gradually returned to the elf's cheeks, and Geralt felt him shift, heard him whimper in his sleep. What troubled dreams might the beast have lain upon him? 

The tall, powerful elf fit oddly in Geralt's arms, curled up as he was. It didn't feel right. He wanted Iorveth moving, active, touching, and avoiding and surrounding the witcher with his very presence. 

"Wake up. Wake up, Iorveth," he muttered, gently taking his shoulder and shaking it. Geralt found himself unable to shout, his voice having fled with the phantom.

What joy, what rapture, what inexpressible wonder Geralt felt when Iorveth raised his hands to slap the witcher away. He sat up on his own, unbalanced but present, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "What? What's happening? Why are you here?" He shivered, pulling the blanket closer instinctively. "Why is it so bloody cold in this damn castle?" 

The time had come to have some difficult conversations. Geralt rubbed Iorveth's back, as much for support as comfort just in case the elf keeled over suddenly, and braced himself. "Something was freezing you to death in your sleep."

Iorveth did not reply. 

"You need to tell me what's happening. If I hadn't come down here, I doubt you would be shivering in front of the fire. I am calling in your promised life. You are not allowed to lose it when there might be something I can do to keep you alive."

Still, the elf said nothing. 

Geralt pressed on. "Maybe you're being haunted by someone. You've killed lots of people, it stands to reason one cursed you, or one of their families did." It bothered him how little that knowledge bothered him. Still, he continued. "If you let me help, it can be gone. I won't judge you."

Silence. Geralt felt frustration rising like bile in his throat. "Please."

Nothing. 

Geralt wanted to shake Iorveth like he was an apple tree and the answer difficult fruit lodged in his branches. Instead, he stood, and ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. He walked away, then back, crossing his arms to stare down at Iorveth. The elf had arranged himself more comfortably, legs crossed, hands on his knees, gripping them for dear life. 

"How can I trust you, as you ask me to, if you won't let me in when I can see a clear and present danger? This isn't theoretical nightmares and waking up screaming in the night. It's a monster. I've waited patiently for months, and I appreciate what you've let me see, but the time is long passed for waiting for the right time to discuss things. There was a beast, here, in Kaer Morhen, and that beast followed  _ you _ in."

He crouched, trying and failing to catch Iorveth's eye. "If you respect this place, you have to tell me what's happening."

He waited for a heartbeat. Then two. Then three.

"I had a commander." 

As Iorveth began to speak, so quietly Geralt almost had to strain, he saw on the elf's face how poorly he was. Iorveth's eye was wide, almost glassy, and the little color the witcher had coaxed back into him had fled all over again.

"I had a commander, a clever, brutal man. He died."

Iorveth licked his cracked, dry lips and swallowed. "He died at the Hydra, just after I died-" He caught himself short. "Should have. Just after I should have died." 

He sighed and leaned back, and back, and back, until he had gone all the way over and laid on the warming stones. "I dream of him. He talks about betrayal and finding me out. All in black."

Geralt listened quietly to see if Iorveth would continue. He did not, so Geralt picked up the conversation. "It could be a few things. My first guess would be a hym."

"Possibly. Those came up in one of the books."

"They're not common."

Iorveth nodded. "Tell me about them, then."

Geralt swallowed. "They latch onto guilty people. Usually, people who have done something they consider unforgivable."

A hollow, wicked laugh wound its way out of Iorveth's mouth. "I ought to have at least three trailing behind me, then."

"Not necessarily."

"Have you forgotten? I'm not Iorveth the Butcher for my cooking skills, witcher. There are a few things that weigh heavy on my soul." 

In his core, Iorveth knew it wasn't any ghost or ghoul listed in any witcher's bestiary. He wouldn't get off so easily, no, no. He did not know what he was encountering, but the answer could not come so readily as this. 

"How does a witcher kill a hym, then?"

"Fighting them. Or tricking them. Technically you can't kill them, but the results are just as good."

From his position on the floor, Iorveth rolled his eye upwards, sighing loudly. "And I suppose there's some complicated, difficult ritual involved to catch it out? Black candles, chalk circles, listening to my language get butchered by dh'oine tongues?"

"Normally, no. We'd have to go to a place where your guilt lives, catch it out. Maybe even start a physical confrontation, but the snows have started. We're not going anywhere until the spring thaw."

"Pity. The Ravine of the Hydra is so lovely this time of year." 

Geralt doubted it. The glorified pit had looked blighted and horrific, filled with jagged rocks and lacking in vegetation save for some sparse forest, and even that did not start until a good fifty or so feet away from the lip of the chasm. He shuddered to think what the Wild Hunt had wanted with the poor bastard they'd taken from the corpse pit. "If we can deal with this from here, I'd prefer it." He counted in his head how long it had been since Iorveth had convalesced at Melitele's temple. "You're holding up remarkably well for someone who's dealt with a hym since summer."

"Am I? How am I meant to be holding up?"

"Poorly. Hyms torture their victims over months, inducing madness, bad dreams, and tormenting the poor bastard they latch onto until they either go mad or kill themselves."

"I've never needed help to be tormented," the elf remarked with an ugly sneer. "I plague myself enough to do without a spirit helping me along."

"It's not a spirit. Hyms aren't ghosts. They're monsters in their own rights."

Iorveth snorted. "Well, pardon me. I hope we have not offended the beast through miscategorization."

Geralt ignored the snark, for Iorveth was clearly traumatized. "I'll talk to Vesemir in the morning. He's had more experience with hym than I have, and he'll know best how to get rid of them without doing as much digging around."

He saw Iorveth stiffen. "Do as you think is best."

Geralt caught himself. This wasn't a mission he could hammer through and bulldoze. He needed to be patient. "I can also try to keep things to myself. Hym shouldn't be dangerous to anybody but you, and if it suddenly jumps from you to one of us, it should be pretty easy to tell. They aren't subtle if you know what to look for." 

Not all, but most, of the tension went out of Iorveth's body. He did not relish airing his pain to others. At the moment, he would do whatever it took to keep the witcher safe and, unfortunately, that meant keeping himself safe. Iorveth was woefully unpracticed in doing so.

"Come on," Geralt rose, offering Iorveth his hand. "Let's to bed, and we'll start studying in the morning. If there's one thing Vesemir appreciates more than hard labor, it's study. He ought to let us be, and he's within pained-screaming distance if things go wrong."

The elf took the hand gratefully, following the witcher on shaky legs. Geralt almost offered to take Iorveth in his arms and carry him, but the elf had accepted so much help that Geralt feared he'd run off into the woods if offered yet more. Instead, the witcher wrapped his arm around Iorveth's waist, and Iorveth quietly draped his arm over Geralt's shoulders, and the two limped slowly back to bed.

All the way up, Geralt tried to forget that hym were not known for freezing their victims, and Iorveth seemed to have only one perfectly normal shadow.

As predicted, Vesimir did not try to dissuade them from the work of reading. Iorveth slept fitfully, but sleep he did, without dreams. Much to Iorveth's deep annoyance, Geralt functioned perfectly well despite staying up to keep Iorveth company. Perhaps it wasn't too late to start taking witcher elixirs, he mused, as yet another book's passages started to do summersaults. He leaned back, yet more dismayed to find it was early morning yet, and rubbed his eye. 

Geralt looked up, noting the pronounced, dark circles under Iorveth's eye sockets. He gestured with his head toward the door. "Go. Sleep."

Iorveth shook his head. "I'll not leave you to do all the work alone. I'm perfectly ca-ca-ca-" his eye screwed shut and jaws opened in a massive yawn. "-Capable of pulling my weight."

"No, you're not. You've nearly keeled over three times in the last hour."

Iorveth bit back a comment about Geralt watching him sleep, along with another yawn. He could barely keep his head upright.

"I can bring some books," the witcher ventured. "We can read in the room where it's warm, at least." 

Warmth sounded so lovely. Kaer Morhen did fuck-all to keep the heat out in some places, the library being one of them. Iorveth stood up and groaned as his back cracked. "If you insist. An old man's bones need heat. You'll find out eventually." 

Geralt smiled wide. He couldn't help it. "When I get there, you can walk me through all the best ways to keep comfortable."

Iorveth eyed him curiously. "Yes. I suppose I can."

They starred at each other, processing the inherent promise made. Iorveth hadn't thought beyond fixing the Seov, and Geralt actively tried not to ponder what future they could have together.

They both tried to forget the whispered, hopeful campfire conversations on the way to Loc Muinne. They tried to forget how they'd eclipsed all else for one another, if only for those nights. Iorveth had briefly believed they might act on those sleepy, mumbled, incoherent plans, but it was all pipe dreams.

Pipe dreams dissipated in the sunlight. Sunlight witnessed promises, and here they were, making them idly. 

Geralt stood up as well, gathering books quickly and striding past Iorveth for the doorway. Iorveth followed, stunned, dreamy, drunk on the barest idea of a future. 

The witcher had already set up shop on "his" side of the bed when Iorveth finished limping his way upstairs. His body felt like he'd been caught out in a blizzard, and it ached to move. He stripped and settled under the furs and covers quite comfortably, rolling over to make the most of Geralt's body heat.

"I feel useless," he groused, sleepily. "Read aloud." His eye caught Geralt's curious look, and he scowled. "I can't read and sleep at the same time, as I'm sure you superior witchers can, but perhaps I might catch something in the text that you won't," he explained. 

"I thought you just craved a few hours of my dulcet voice."

Iorveth took the teasing in stride, and perhaps because he was so tired, or maybe he simply felt the urge, he returned sincerity. "That does not harm my enjoyment. I enjoy hearing you speak, when you do."

Geralt looked down at Iorveth. His eye had already shut.

"Get on with it, I'm not going to repeat myself."

Geralt opened the dusty tome and did as Iorveth bid. The elf could hear the barest hint of a smile in Geralt's voice. "Some men have reason to fear their own shadows. The hym, terror incarnate, are the manifestations of one's crimes brought to life..."

Iorveth hovered between sleep and waking for hours, lost in the calm tones of Geralt's voice.

Candles flickered in the darkness. A seriousness settled in as chalk scraped on stone, shadows dancing and twisting into wicked shapes. 

"Do you think it'll work this time?" Iorveth shook his cramping hand, nearly dropping the chalk. 

"Maybe." 

Fall came and went. Kaer Morhen, hardly cheerful at the best of times, settled into the stark mountainous landscape like some great battered toad squatting amidst the rocks. Geralt and Iorveth had done an admirable job of not involving Vesemir in Iorveth's presumed Hym issues. The old witcher knew something was going on, but he seemed happy to leave them to their devices. He wasn't being paid, so these problems were not his. As long as the castle stood once they finished, he'd be satisfied. 

Iorveth chose this particular room for their purposes. Its location felt ideal, far enough away from the usable parts of Kaer Morhen that, should they destroy it, Vesemir shouldn't be too upset, but enclosed enough that Geralt would have a fighting chance if things took a turn for the worse. Evidence of their past failures taunted them, chalk and animal blood splattered across the floor and walls. 

This was their fifth and, Geralt hoped, final attempt. Both of them silently acknowledged somewhere around attempt three that they were not dealing with a Hym. The figure had not manifested again since that night in the library, but Iorveths nightmares continued. A point of concern prickled at the back of Geralt's mind- the dreams had started to change. Every morning began with stilted accounts of torments rendered. No longer did Iorveth experience the void and Isengrim, but live burials, burning, and other unthinkable pains. He'd grown so jittery that Geralt suggested using the witcher's sign Somnus, which nearly guaranteed dreamless sleep, but Iorveth refused. 

"I can stand the nightmares, but I will not let anyone alter my mind with magic. Not even you."

Geralt didn't offer again, much as he wanted to.

Instead, herbal sachets were made, incenses burned, and medicaments brewed. Anything repeatable he could do on his own Iorveth appreciated. Well, not appreciated, but tolerated, at least. Having an active hand in finding solutions helped, as well. 

Iorveth finished the latest arcane sigil. It wasn't bad, he was getting better. Switching back and forth between hands to prevent cramping meant he was equally skilled with either. He reckoned with all the practice he might be able to confidently tattoo left-handed. It stood to reason. He could shoot with either arm.

Geralt arranged himself on the floor, resting on his knees in a meditative position. "Nearly done?"

"Just finished, in fact." 

The elf surveyed his and Geralt's handiwork. The longer they went without progress, the more antsy and strange the witcher got. Iorveth didn't know what this particular rite was meant to achieve. Living in ignorance irked him, but he'd elected to trust the witcher. One of them was an expert at monsters, the other wasn't. It didn't matter how many books Geralt read as Iorveth went to sleep, the elf was not a witcher, and he never would be. 

While Iorveth had busied himself with the walls, Geralt covered the floor in chalk and pigments of varying colors. Now and again, Iorveth recognized a symbol here, a word there, but nothing immediately clued him in to what this night had in store. Sunset passed hours ago, wintery blackness shrouding the castle in secrecy. 

"Sit. Please."

Iorveth did so, plopping himself down about a foot from the witcher in the center of the room. 

"Put your hand here." Geralt indicated a complex series of chalk marks equidistant between them. Something in the witcher's voice made Iorveth hesitate even as he extended his arm. 

"What is it this does again? I can't recall what you told me."

Reading a witcher took practice and finesse. Iorveth liked to think he'd gotten reasonably good at it over the past months. Geralt nearly didn't react, but Iorveth saw the barest pained flinch in his eyes. The elf froze, hand halfway to the floor.

"What? What's that face." He drew back an inch or two. "What aren't you telling me, Geralt?"

This time the witcher didn't even try to hide his wince. It hurt to hear his name coming from Iorveths mouth in that accusatory tone. He shifted from side to side. "It's complicated and hard to explain."

Iorveth withdrew himself entirely, crossing his arms in defiance.

"Lots of things are, that doesn't mean you can't try."

"It's another try to summon and confront your issues actively, but on a more practical, tactical level. Here, let me show you the pages I copied down, they explain it better."

He reached into one of his pockets and rummaged around. 

Later Iorveth would kick himself for missing the obvious trick. Somne takes moments to cast and is nigh undodgeable, as the elf quickly discovered, slumping forward in a deep, enchanted sleep. 

It cut Geralt to his core to betray Iorveth so, but time had long passed for trying to talk sense. He'd either have to drag Iorveth to the Ravine of the Hydra the moment spring raised her lovely head, or trick him into doing the right thing. Whatever hangups he had, they could discuss later. There would be plenty of time to fight and make up once Geralt had the assurance that Iorveth would survive. 

The worst part, he decided, wasn't the actual act of betrayal, but the look of surprise on Iorveth's face as he passed out. Geralt expected rage, hate, something cutting, but no. All that showed in his remaining eye was a pure, almost childlike surprise. 

Geralt arranged Iorveth more comfortably onto his back and settled into place on his knees once more. He shut his eyes and began the meditative chant, receding into himself and the darkness.

"First, you shall confront yourself," he muttered, flexing ghostly limbs. He could still feel his sitting, meditating body elsewhere, but he was no longer in the cold stone room. He stood, instead, in the castle courtyard on a bright and lovely summer day. Shock nearly jolted him back into his body when he realized he knew what day this was. It had been so many decades, but a young witcher never forgets the first day he sets out on the Path. 

He tentatively walked through the yard towards the open gate. "I thought this was supposed to be Iorveth's mind."

"It is, and it isn't."

Geralt spun around, his hand automatically going to the swords that were suddenly present upon his back. 

Two sets of steps lead to the main portico of Kaer Morhen. One set had been destroyed long before Geralt's time. Two men, two other Geralts, stood at the base of each stairway. 

The one that he presumed had spoken smiled sadly at him. The other, far less friendly, scowled. 

How little he had changed, he thought to himself.

"More than you'd think," the angry one said, nodding to his stomach. Geralt, present Geralt, looked down and winced. His grouchy self was bleeding profusely from the abdomen from three large holes. He remembered those injuries so vividly. He could not recall his aggressor's face, but he'd never forget the pain of a pitchfork breaking skin. Of all the wounds he'd been healed of, Geralt was grateful the hunt had let him keep that one. 

"You must first face yourself," the kindly one said. "You got the line wrong. It's an important difference."

"I can tell who he is," Geralt retorted, ignoring the correction, "But who are you?"

"You can figure it out. You're lucky there're only two of us," the bleeding Geralt groused, settling himself down on the steps with a groan. His leathers gleamed in the cheerful sunlight. "How many times have you died? More than twice."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

Geralt turned to the one with the sad eyes. "He's from the Rivian Pogrom, then. I did die. But you, I don't know."

"Come on, have a guess." His smiling self walked forward slowly, without menace. "Who could I be? When could I be?" 

Geralt focused on his twin-self's clothing: dusty boots, swords, newish chainmail. He still had the swords mirrored on the other self's back. It slowly dawned on him that, like the other Geralt, this one was also covered in blood, but not his. He smelled strange, like burning hair and flesh. 

"Loc Muinne."

"Got it in one."

Geralt stepped back. The doppelganger was hardly a sword's length away, and the witcher wanted a bit more distance than that. "That makes no sense. I didn't die there. Lots of other people did, but-"

"Yes, you did," Rivian Geralt snapped. "You can die inside without dying the rest of the way."

"What?"

"You heard me." Rivian Geralt tried to struggle to his feet, but failed, sitting back down. Loc Muinne Geralt chuckled at the bleeding man. 

"Curmugeiony, isn't he?" He turned back to the Geralt, who was dreaming. "You never let him go. Isn't that unkind? You're still living with that death. You can't let the hurt go away."

"And? He can't learn to grow up from you. You're barely a babe in arms compared to me! You fell for the first pretty face you saw, and what good did it do you? What good did it do him?" 

"So, you admit the elf is pretty?"

Rivian Geralt might have blushed were it not for the blood loss and actual inability. "I can admit someone is pretty without forgetting what's most important." He pointed an accusing finger at Dreaming Geralt. "You KNOW Yennefer is still alive, we got the letter this morning, and you know Ciri is lost. Why do you waste time here? Let the elf deal with himself and wash your hands of it."

"Wouldn't she have said something if she wanted you? It's like Nenneke said, Ciri is a grown woman now." Loc Muinne Geralt closed the distance again, clapping Dreaming Geralt on the shoulder. "We do deserve to be happy, and Iorveth makes us so. That old fool is holding us back from the future. Why not forget the sorceress. We were good when we forgot ourselves."

This time Rivian Geralt did manage to get to his feet, striding over to spin Loc Muinne Geralt around, breaking his grip on Dreaming Geralt. "You're a dreamy idiot. We have obligations! We have ties to the world outside! We can't just run off and be..."

"Be what? Satisfied? Rewarded?" Loc Muinne Geralt shoved the bleeding witcher, making him stumble backward. "You can't be us forever. You may be older, but I had something you did not- a reason to survive, to live." Loc Muinne Geralt shoved him again, with both hands this time. "You hate yourself," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You can't stand anything that might jeopardize your martyrdom."

Dreaming Geralt watched in horror as his mirror selves drew swords, circling one another. 

Rivian Geralt delt the first blow, feinting to the left with his sword when Loc Muinne Geralt blocked, slicing into the man's leg. Dreaming Geralt shouted in surprise at the pain, sinking to one knee. The cut was only superficial, but the shock of it felled him. His bleeding truly dead self didn't have the youthful determination the other one did, but he made up for the lack with memories. The amnesiac Geralt was spry and limber, and he had all the same witcher instincts, but no recollection of where they came from. Dreaming Geralt tried to rise to his feet when he felt another wound open upon his face. His self from Loc Muinne got a cut in and followed it with a swift blow to the back of the bleeding witcher's head with the pommel of his sword, somersaulting away and back to his feet in a blink.

"Give me a hand, Geralt! We can take this elderly bastard easily, we can be free of him once and for all!" the amnesiac crowed, parrying and dodging blows like a youth. 

"Idiot, draw your sword and run this showoff through!" The Rivian Geralt shouted, headbutting the other in the face and sending him staggering backward. Dreaming Geralt cried out and clutched his nose, now gushing blood. 

The doubles continued to fight, back and forth in a deadly dance, each calling for the other's death. The ritual had not specified what "face yourself" had meant, and this wasn't what the witcher had in mind. Every injury mirrored itself on Dreaming Geralt's body, as did the aches and pains of old injuries. The Geralt of Loc Muinne hurt from dragon fire, and his shoulder twinged after the hard ride Saskia had given him. Rivian Geralt's knee threatened to buckle repeatedly. Sparks flew from witcher swords. They were matched almost evenly, experience and health actively dueling for supremacy. 

He could choose, but which? 

Time was running thin. No matter how much one hurt, the true Geralt felt worse. Which one to kill, to save his skin? Which Geralt was worth less in the eyes of his present self? 

Agonizingly slowly, Geralt staggered forward and drew his sword. It nearly fell from his hands so great was the pain. At the sound of sword exiting scabbard, his doubles froze mid-swing and turned to look at him. 

"How eerie my eyes are," he thought to himself as four yellow cat slits followed his sluggish movements. 

The Geralt without memory sneered. "Yes, yes, we're freaks of nature. I'm sure we've thought it a million and more times, what's one more?"

Geralt, the true Geralt, looked at himselves. 

He raised his sword high and dropped it to the ground.

"If I kill one of you, I die. That's how this works, isn't it? It's suicide no matter what, so fight it out yourselves and leave me to bleed in peace."

Neither apparition moved. The world shimmered, and Geralt's vision went strange. Everything tumbled, swirling in a dizzying array of color and light. He could feel the pain in his dreaming body in Kaer Morhen, but as the world spun, he lost connection to that as well. Nausea churned in his stomach as he flew adrift in a psychic sea. 

A steady, firm hand on his arm grounded him again. He stumbled, still bleeding, still in pain, and found himself supported.

"Thank-"

Geralt jumped back as best he could, ready to snatch his sword off the ground again. The other witcher, the other him, raised his hands in surrender. 

How young he looked. How hopeful. How long ago it had been.

"It's okay. I'm not here to hurt you."

"The other ones were."

"I'm not them. Or I guess I am, because you are, but I'm also not."

Geralt sized himself up. This was him on that fateful day he went out roving on the wild and twisting Way. His armor looked stiff and uncomfortable because it was. His hair was shorn and short, not long and shaggy as he kept it now. No scar arced across his eye, and the lad had not a single wrinkle to his face. The eyes, though the same, had something bright and eager in them that made Geralt's chest ache.

"Do I have to kill you, then?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Good. I'm tired."

The young witcher nodded to a low wall. "We could sit."

Without a word, Geralt made his way in the indicated direction, sagging onto the hard stone. He felt old, and he felt broken. 

The youth sat next to his older self, perched awkwardly as if ready to spring away at a moment's notice. "Don't be skittish," the older man grumbled. "We've no reason to be, and it makes people nervous." 

"I know. We know."

"Why are you here? I don't think this counted as dying, just growing up."

"We die many deaths, but you are right. We didn't die then, nor did we die today. I'm happy for that. You made one good choice. Perhaps it will negate your poor one waiting for you further down the road."

Geralt sneered at himself. "And what's that mean? Are you judging me, lad?"

"You're judging yourself. You do that all the time, and you did it just now. It could have ended easily before coming to blows. Why is it all a competition between our pain and our pleasure, duty, and our wants?"

Geralt groaned and leaned back, looking up at the sky. "I don't know. You're more talkative than I remember."

"I have a lot to say. We've been doing things that I think are very stupid."

"You still haven't told me who you are."

The young man relaxed onto the wall and leveled Geralt with a severe look. "We are you. We are you before you learned what the world is." He pointed at the path out of Kaer Morhen. "Down that road a bit is a girl. Down that road, you will save her from a monster of a man. I will learn that no-one appreciates, no-one cares when I save them. We will learn we are a tool for the people, not a person."

"And you don't know that yet?"

"No. And I never will."

Geralt sighed. "The other two?"

"Why don't you tell me? Educate a youth."

Geralt cracked an eye just in time to see his younger self's impish grin. "Little prick. Alright. The old one is easy."

"Is he?"

"Shut up. He's my past. He's who I was before I died."

"And?"

With a snarl, Geralt continued. "AND he's my... He's my obligations, I think. He's everything I need to be."

"Everything you THINK we need to be. The cynical grown-up self I never thought about."

There was nothing to say to that, so Geralt moved on. "The other one is not someone I want to think about."

"You have to."

"No I don't."

Young Geralt stood up suddenly and walked to the center of the yard, pulling a wooden practice sword from the ether. He began doing drills against no-one. With a start, Geralt realized he recognized the behavior. When Vesemir had drilled him too hard on the books, or one of his brother-witchers pushed him too far, Geralt would do drills for hours and hours talking to...

"Yourself. We talked to yourself."

"When did we... I, stop doing that?"

"When we realized people could read our mind, and it would be better to keep silent in all company just in case somebody was listening."

"What's the point of this?"

The young man paused in the middle of a jab to turn and look at Geralt again. "How can you save him if we are not whole? If you persist in being one Geralt, or the other?"

"Am I not you?"

The youth smiled again. "We're me the most when he's around. He makes me remember what it was like to be young, when people didn't look at us expecting a solution to all their problems for a reasonable fee. I like to listen to him talk. We'd like to talk, too, but most of you won't let us."

"I talk!"

"You talk and say nothing."

Geralt tried to get to his feet and tell the young man what for but fell immediately, blood from his wounds splattering the dusty ground. As before, the youth was with him, supporting him until he was back on his feet. Geralt could feel the literary irony- what analysis and prose Dandelion would put to this scenario if Geralt ever told him about it. 

Once Geralt was stable, the youth stepped back, the nervous coltish speed of his step not lost on the witcher. "Lead with the left from this side," he muttered. "If I had a dagger, it'd be in your side now. Get the important organs away from the danger first."

"You can't help but try and improve yourself, can you? Even if you know it will change nothing?"

Geralt said nothing. The youth spoke again. "Who was he, the other man? Tell me."

"You already know."

"Do I? Do you?"

"YES," Geralt shouted, so loud it sent a flock of crows spiraling from the top of one of the towers. His voice echoed back to him off of the stone walls. 

"Yes," he continued, quieter this time. "He's pleasure. He's joy. He's the me that deserves to be... something."

They stood there in the quiet together. "May I say something?"

"I can't stop you."

"He's not the part of us that deserves "something". He isn't some better part of us, or some horrific secret greed as you suspect."

Geralt couldn't look the young man in the eye. 

"All of me deserves something, Geralt. I do, they did. You do."

"Do I?"

He looked down at his hands, trembling and bare. "This isn't real. You aren't real."

"I am. I was."

"You're just a memory."

"That doesn't make me less real and present. Tell me who they were."

"I already did!"

"Tell me again."

He slumped to the ground, head in his hands. "One is what I want, and the other is what I have to do-"

"No."

Geralt swallowed.

"One is. One is what I want, and the other is what I think I have to do."

"Yes, and no. Keep going."

"FUCK," he yelled, slamming his hand into the dirt. "One is memory. One is my memories. The other, the other isn't. He's...."

"Yes?"

"He's what I, he's me. He's me without the memory. The weight of it."

Each word came out like a pulled tooth, dragging baggage with it."

"Still wrong, still right."

"How? What more do you want? What do you want from me?"

The youth crouched next to Geralt, changed again, younger again. A shock of fiery red hair fell around his face, dull hazel eyes looking at him with a deep and inscrutable expression. "What do you want? Why were those men so wicked, so hateful? Why do you think this of them?"

"Because it's who I was, who I am! When I died, I was angry and bitter. I'd lost everything! And when I was there in Aedern, I was selfish. I gave into selfishness without consequences. I betrayed us."

The boy shook his head. "No, you did not. You saved her. You saved him. You did what was right."

"Did I?"

The boy smiled, all teeth. "We did. You are not many men in one body. This you, this us, is them as well- the real them, not your boogymen."

Geralt raised his head to stare himself in the eye. A little blood ran out of the child's nose, and he knew what day this was. "Don't let the Pendulum hit your face. Better a broken wrist than a nose, that could kill you."

The boy sat in the dirt and wiped the blood off on his sleeve. "I know."

"Of course you do."

They looked at each other, one face searching the other, not sure what they were looking for. 

"He will be very angry with me."

"Yes. I shouldn't have done that."

"Why did you?"

Geralt heaved a heavy sigh. "He talks to me. He tells me so much, but he doesn't tell me anything. I know him, but I don't, and if he doesn't let me in, then I can't..."

"You can't save him."

"Yes."

"Tell me who those men were."

Geralt cuffed the boy around the ear. "Little devil, will you ask me something else."

The child laughed. "Maybe, when you've answered me."

"Fine. They were not me. They are lies I tell myself."

"Good. What else?"

"They are projections. I cannot be more than I am at any moment- I FEEL I cannot be," he corrected, when he saw the boy open his mouth to contradict him. "-One is the fear of my past. If I cater to one, I fear I will have to give up the other. He died once for a cause. Will I have to do it again?"

"Perhaps. You'd die for him."

"I would." Geralt rolled an admission around in his mouth, tasting the words. "I think I'd live for him, too."

"Good. Keep going." 

"The other is the truth. He is, I think, what we would have grown into if we'd grown some other way. Maybe if we'd left a day earlier, or a day later, if we hadn't met who we'd met, we'd have been him. We'd have had something other than that loathing."

"Yes."

Geralt drew a shaky breath. "How did you get so wise, Plotka?"

"How'd you get so stupid, old Plotka?"

The older witcher laughed and tried to cuff the boy again, but missed as the child rolled away. When he got to his feet, Geralt felt his heart drop into his stomach. This boy, this youth, was somewhere in between the child and the man. Geralt knew precisely where. 

He looked ill, skin pale and deathly white. Geralt could see a sheen of sweat on his face, a yellow beginning to tint the eyes—the red starting to fade. Geralt got to his feet as well, unsure of what to do.

Neither was in good shape. They both bled, they both shook. He did not want to see the child he'd been speaking to go through this.

"We had to."

"Did we?"

"I thought we did."

The lad hadn't hit the sudden growth spurt Geralt remembered. This must be the beginning of the later trials. He'd still had red hair after the first ones, his skin did not yet have the sallow, white caste to it. 

"Have we not suffered enough?" The boy asked quietly. Geralt could see how much he hurt. "I chose this. You chose this. I am not some other child. I am not Cirilla." He spat on the ground, bloody phlegm splattering. "You did not torment a child this way, you were me, and we decided. You do not need to hurt like this. You do not need to hate me. I do not hate you."

Wordlessly Geralt stepped forward and wrapped the boy in his arms. He clung to himself, terrified of how fragile he had been. Soon, the trials would be complete. He'd become faster, fitter, than any witcher before him. Now, though, he shook. The boy began to cry silently. Geralt could feel it on his shoulder.

No one had held him then. He'd been alone, waiting to die, not fully understanding why he needed to hurt more than his brothers. He still didn't understand, not really, but he could hold on for dear life in the here and now. It didn't erase the past, but starring it in the face helped. 

Geralt held himself and waited. 

When the boy finally pulled back, he was the child again, perhaps a little older than the one before. 

"Thanks," he sniffled, eyes still red from crying. Geralt ruffled the child's hair, watching errant curls bob and bounce. 

"Any time."

"You'd better mean it."

"Of course I do, Plotka."

The child nodded with a severity that brought a smile to Geralt's face. He'd been so serious at this age. The child made to speak, then stopped. 

"Hey, now. It's not fair you get to pull questions out of me and then won't speak when you want to. Let it out." He squatted so they could look one another in the eye, yellow into hazel. 

"We call the horses Roach."

"Yes."

The child looked at the ground, kicking dust. Geralt waited patiently. "So we still miss her," the child said.

Geralt's mouth went dry. He knew better than to lie. "Yes. We do."

"Will we ever see her again, do you think?"

The witcher sighed. "I don't know, Plotka. Couldn't say. But next time, when we do, I think. I think I'll ask her why."

"Yes. Why we were mother's Plotka, her Little Roach."

"Mmm. People think it's odd we call our horse a fish."

The child giggled. "It is!"

A bird cried in the forests outside Kaer Morhen. Geralt looked out into the woods, into the wild unknown. "We have to go out there. After him, I mean."

"Yes, you do."

The boy had grown up again, back to who he was the day he left. "Not coming with me?"

The youth shook his head. "No. I can't leave. Every step taken after that day was yours, not mine. We die a thousand deaths, but we grow up and are reborn far more often. For better or worse, I became you that day, and you became them, and then you. A little fish grew into a big witcher." The youth clasped Geralt on the shoulder with a fond comradery. Geralt did the same to him, pulling the young man into a tight, brotherly embrace. 

"There is so much I'm not read to be, to accept, but I promise that you are not one of them."

The world rippled again, but Geralt was prepared for it this time. When all settled, he was alone in Kaer Morhen. He had been alone the entire time, he mused, turning heel and walking into the woods.

These were not the woods where Geralt grew up.

They had initially been, familiar birch and pine dotting the road, but he soon found the road of dirt and mud narrow to a path, then barely a deer trail of trampled grass. The trees changed to towering oaks, and the woods smelled strongly of herbs. He had a sudden sense of his smallness and somehow felt this forest was both ancient and incredibly young. 

"I wouldn't go that way, if I were you."

Far calmer than he had been before, but still quite jumpy, Geralt twirled but did not go for his sword. 

A young man stood before him, bright, twinkling green eyes full of mischief and delight. Geralt could only think of him as "beautiful," for that was what he was. 

Geralt had read that many things could pop up in the little dream pocket he'd conjured. Monsters, other selves, nightmares, these were common and expected. Much rarer were friends and family. He made a note to ask when Iorveth had acquired a younger brother, and why he'd never been mentioned. 

"Why not?"

"There's a rabid old fox that way. I wouldn't want you getting hurt."

Geralt shrugged, hoping that he was the only one who could tell how nervous the young elf made him. The more he looked, the more similar this young elf was to his old one. They shared a similar bone structure, the same dark hair, and general build, but there the similarities ceased. This elf was paler than Iorveth, his hair long and braided. Geralt wagered it would have swept past his waist when let loose. There, too, was a certain quirk of the eye that distinguished the two. Where Iorveth reminded him of a fox, this man had a cat's demeanor and the lithe, limber movements of a young buck. 

"Rabid foxes don't scare me."

The young man's smile lit up the forest, beaming from the depths of his soul. Geralt's heart fluttered in a way he did not much enjoy. "This one might. He's got the sharpest teeth, the quickest bite. I'd be careful, were I you."

The young man's clothes shone, elven silk reflecting the deep autumnal sunlight. He was clad in finery, this the witcher could tell. There was an intricacy, a code to the clothes he had never entirely worked out. Maybe the belt of woven gold meant something of rank, or the embroidery of willows on his tunic signified a family, but Geralt knew nothing. He did note, with some surprise, that the young man wore no shoes. 

"You aren't me, so I'll only be a little careful. If you'll excuse me."

He turned away, but the elf followed.

"I shall do nothing of the sort."

"What?"

"Excuse you! I won't allow you to be excused so quickly. You will be stuck with my charming company." He hadn't stopped smiling. Geralt tried not to look at him. The witcher could accept that he was attracted to men, but he still reserved the right to be flustered about the whole situation. 

"Fine."

"Not a big talker? It would figure. You know, Mother always said I was the chattiest in the family." He snickered, light step making barely a sound or trace in the grass. "If only she knew!" The elf eyed Geralt up and down, shamelessly taking in his every inch. The wood continued so far Geralt could see no end to the trail. "You are a fine specimen. Lean, not too bulky, fascinating coloration." Suddenly the elf was in front of Geralt, forcing the witcher to stop short. Why must all the men in the Cynwrig line be so damn tall? 

The elf hooked his finger under Geralt's chin and tilted it up, leaning in uncomfortably close. "Extraordinary. How ever did you get such beautiful eyes? I've never seen the like before." Geralt could feel the elf's breath on him, could smell a heady blend of juniper, vervain, and verbena. The man practically stunk of it. "Like amber- no. Like honey. If one could call them anything other than divine, I'd call him a liar." 

Geralt was frozen in place, mesmerized as a bird might be by a snake. He said nothing. The elf's voice lilted pleasantly in Geralt's ear with an accent he could not quite place. He rolled his r's like a cat, held his vowels oddly, and overall gave the impression that every word from his mouth was a song or piece of poetry. 

The witcher had only heard it's like from the mouths of the eldest, most distinguished elves, but somehow this fellow held hardly any of the pretension his elders delivered. This, too, struck Geralt. He could tell the elf was young by the clarity of his eyes.

The elf continued, running his thumb over Geralt's jaw and cheek. "So pale, not even a blush? Stands to reason, how can one plant roses in a snowstorm. You are exquisite. What an addition to my collection you would make, my honey-eyed sir." He leaned closer, tilting his head just the slightest bit. 

"You would be my crowned jewel, a curiosity to pull out and show off to the world," he murmured, moments away from the witcher's slightly parted lips. Suddenly he smirked, that wicked twinkle back in his emerald eyes, and pulled away, tucking a bit of hair behind Geralt's ear. "Alas, I suspect you are spoken for, honey-eyes. Isn't that right?" 

Geralt wasn't sure whether to be enraged or grateful for the reprieve from the elf's attention. He stammered but managed to agree that, yes, he had been spoken for, after a fashion.

"You've the look of a man with things on his mind. Pity, I could show a silver fox like you the time of his life."

"Might want to watch your tongue. There's a lot I don't know, but I'm pretty sure even elves frown upon flirting with your brother's-" he fumbled for a word. "-companion."

The elf mouthed the word "brother," eyebrows curiously furrowed. The expression soon morphed into one of delight. "Ah, yes, him. Really? That's a shame. Not for him, of course. You're a catch." He started down the path, and Geralt found he had no choice to follow. If the rest of Iorveth's family were this gorgeous, Geralt would never be able to meet more than two of them at a time. His heart would give out from the stress, especially if they were equally flirtatious. 

Progress would have been agonizingly slow if Geralt hadn't been so enamored of the elf's company. He tried to keep his eyes ahead but kept looking back at the tall, slender man. 

"Forgive my rudeness, but what exactly are you, honey-eyes?" The elf purred over the edge of a blossom he'd plucked. "I'd like a name to put to you, even if you won't let me collect you."

Ah, this was a memory from long ago, before the existence of witchers was common knowledge. "I'm a witcher. A monster hunter." He caught the elf's grin and looked away again. "We fix problems, keep people safe. All sorts of people," he added quickly. 

"I'd best keep close, then. Plenty of dangers lurk in the wood for a young man." He reached over, stopping progress again, to take the witcher's pendant in his hand. "A wolf? My, my." He locked eyes with the witcher again. "I fell in with a wolf, once. Not silver like you. Iron. Iron in his eyes, and in his soul." A darkness clouded the elf's eyes, sending a shiver down Geralt's spine. "I've been called a monster before. Would you hunt me, honey-eyes? I would lead you a merry chase, although who would eat who may yet be determined." His tongue, strangely red, licked perfect, pale lips. He curled his fist around the medallion, chain taught around the witcher's neck. 

"Chained, too. Quiet. Stoic. Oh, yes. Not my leash, though. Not yet." He came in close again, sun glinting off of his alarmingly white teeth. "Yes, I could see myself falling very much in love with you."

With a little tug, the elf brought Geralt the rest of the way into a kiss. Sparks flew in the witcher's blood, and he lost himself. The elf met his lips with wild abandon, carrying the passion of youth and skill of age that sent Geralt's head spinning. He kissed back without thinking, gripping the front of the elf's tunic. 

He remembered himself quickly, pushing the elf away and scowling. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He didn't even seem phased. If anything, his whole being glowed with delight. "Even better than expected, honey-eyes. Iorveth's soul made the right decision."

"You're insane, or you're a sick bastard."

"Why not both?" He shrugged as if he hadn't a care in the world. He licked his lips again. "Mmm, sweet as honey, too. Still pale as death, I see. You must teach me that trick. I blush like a bride." 

Geralt sidestepped the elf gracefully. "Get away from me. I can't promise I won't hit you if you try that again." 

The elf pressed his hand to his chest and gasped as if deeply hurt. "What? Have I offended so much?" Geralt didn't reply and kept on, trying to put as much distance between himself and the aggravating gentleman as possible without breaking into a run. He'd managed a fair bit when the elf stopped him in his tracks again.

"If you run away, how am I to explain that little secret Iorveth won't tell you about? What was it again- Right! That mysterious Seov?"

Geralt weighed his options. He could keep walking, find Iorveth, and get out as soon as possible. That seemed advisable, even wise. Or, he could be guaranteed to leave with one answer. 

Four failures lay heavy on Geralt's shoulders. Four chances to get it right and drive away the dark figure looming in his memory, all duds. Here, one opportunity to learn something about Iorveth he might not otherwise have a chance to learn. 

Geralt sighed. His lips burned and prickled as if stung. "Tell me. Quickly." 

He felt the elf's breath on his neck. "Part of it is an old piece of elf folklore," he started in a cool tone. "Seov ar Minne. You have a similar concept, I believe. It's a type of," he paused, struggling for the next words, "-soul-mate." He over-enunciated the last word, letting his disgust for it show. "Watered-down horse shit. Seov are far more than some petty mortal destiny." 

Geralt remained perfectly still. The elf's fingers spidered in the witcher's hair. "It is a meeting of souls, a conjoining from two to one." Geralt wanted to step away, maybe throw a punch and break the smug smile he could hear, but he couldn't move. "Normally, it's a cause for celebration, with some notable exceptions."

"Aen siedhe and dh'oine."

"Excellent, you're clever enough to draw obvious conclusions. You're intimately familiar with Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal and her tragic romance, so I shan't bore you with a summary. They shared a Seov, she and he. Tragic when he died. You know, in the elvish version of the story, it isn't just the cold and giving birth that kills her. The other half of her love, her soul, passing on, had a part in it. Their hearts broke together. In a way, Lara was lucky."

"Lucky?" Geralt gritted his teeth. "How's that lucky?"

"Her dh'oine had magic, nigh-eternal life. Petty mortals without such gifts rarely survive the making of a seov. Their souls joining with an elf's drives them mad if it doesn't kill them outright. Leaves the elf a husk of their former self. Something about witchers must make you more spiritually resilient. He's fortunate, that Iorveth."

The elf's fingers tangled in Geralt's hair, tugging, pulling, and smoothing. The witcher tolerated it, if barely. "So, he thinks I'm going to die?"

"No, no no, no. The time's long passed for that. If the Seov were to kill you, it would have happened back in Flotsam."

"So, what's the point of keeping me in the dark?"

"He's afraid, I think. Not of death. Madness, I'd imagine. It's a creeping thing, he probably things the centuries will start to get to you and rot your little brain, but you're so strong-willed, you'll probably be fine. It could also be-" the elf continued when Geralt tried to walk away "-he's worried if you find out you won't want him anymore."

This time Geralt did pull away, brushing the smart, spindly hands off of him. "That's idiotic! You can tell your brother-"

"I don't have a brother."

"Excuse me?"

The elf brushed his braid away from his neck and tugged down his high collar, exposing a familiar knot of limbs and leaves. "I said, I don't have a brother, Geralt." He released the braid again, covering Iorveth's tattoo in a cascade of midnight waves so dark they shone blue. "You're clever, but slow on the uptake when you don't want to see what's right in front of you. Here, let's make it easy."

He undid a portion of his braid and let the hair loose over the right side of his face. 

"Don't make me scowl, love. Surely you recognize me now."

Geralt didn't need him to scowl. Hiding the eye was all it took for Geralt's stomach to drop into his shoes. He'd seen this man before, in Iorveth's shadow. Here was the elf who'd played the flute by the fireside, who'd stripped Geralt naked in the woods, this was the one who'd towered over him on a table in Kaer Morhen. The witcher knew him from a thousand stolen, hidden moments. He was the gold shining through the secret, deep, green gloom. 

"I like it when you're struck dumb. It's almost cute." He pinched Geralt's cheek like an indulgent relative might do to a child. "Almost. I wouldn't show that face to the other me, though. He's rather put out at the moment." His grin broadened, painfully so. "Can't imagine why. A word of advice before you go sprinting off into the forest?"

"If you must." Geralt knocked the hand away from his face. 

"Actually, I mustn't, but you've been fun, honey-eyes. Entertainment is to be rewarded." Young Iorveth bit his lower lip. "You probably wouldn't want the sort of prize I have in mind for you. But I digress, my advice is this- Don't tell me I've talked to you. He's pissed enough at your current fuckup, and you oughtn't to push your luck. Here, I'll even tell you a secret for free. You and he, you and I, aren't so dissimilar. We like to keep our darlings safe, no matter the cost to ourselves."

The youthful elf spun on his heel and set off the way they'd come. "Don't be too angry with us, sweetling. We just want you to be happy." He paused. "Oh, and Geralt? "Ior" means "handsome.""

Before Geralt could reply, the elf vanished, as if he'd never been there at all.

With no way to go but forward, Geralt resumed his trek through the woods alone. He resolved to pay more attention this time. Dotted between the trees, he could make out distant mounds of broken masonry. Occasionally he'd be forced off the path by the remains of a wall or steps. He passed through something that had once been a room, pausing to try and make out what remained of an intricate stucco. 

As he walked, the witcher found time to chastise himself. The ritual hadn't done what it was supposed to, but only Geralt could take the blame for that. He'd modified some academic's formula for communing with one's inner self based on a different and, apparently, worse academic's notations. What should have been a shared, single projection of Iorveth's mind had mutated into something between his and the witcher's subconscious. 

That's what Geralt got for taking advice on magic from people who studied it theoretically, rather than mages. 

He'd traveled barely any time at all when the trees suddenly thinned. Full of caution, he stepped into a clearing canopied by a massive and presumably ancient tree. 

Under the tree were two thrones, one smashed and tilted over, the other barely held together by creeping vines. 

Geralt's Iorveth, the elf he knew and treasured, sat brooding in the upright seat. 

"You-" Iorveth started, not looking up "-had better start talking, and quickly."

The witcher stopped five or six paces from the throne. "I made a mistake."

Iorveth looked so in place on the throne that Geralt felt the urge to supplicate. He quashed the feeling quickly, doubting that would win him back into this Iorveth's good graces. The other one would probably love it, if Iorveth's sentiments at Melitele's temple about Geralt looking good on his knees were anything to go by. 

"How did the battle against your dead selves go?" Geralt regretted opening his mouth immediately. 

Iorveth squinted. "The what?"

"That might've just been something I had to do, then. This dream-bubble we're in seems to generate times a person has died and arranges things, so you have to deal with who you used to be."

The elf's squint deepened into a scowl. "I came to terms with myself more than a lifetime ago, and then I lived several lifetimes after. There is nothing of me to fight." 

"You had one."

"Yes. One. A part of myself that has no use in war. One day I'll need him, and I will accept that day when it comes. I had no need to battle my inner self. Now explain what the fuck you were thinking, or you aren't going to have a life to go back to."

Geralt continued, quickly. "Hym react to guilt. Nothing we did worked, so I did something I'm not proud of. If I could get you to confront whatever might be fuelling things, then, deprived of its preferred food source, the thing would leave."

"And if it isn't a Hym?"

"Then, we'd be in the perfect place to see what you might've done to warrant a haunting. Time doesn't pass here, which is good. I'm pretty sure I'm going to need medical attention later." Though he could not feel the pain any longer, Geralt had a sneaking suspicion he had not sustained injuries in his mind alone. 

"Good. Maybe you'll learn not to fuck with peoples minds. Or to at least give a man warning when you've concocted a half-assed, dangerous plan." Iorveth hawked and spat on the ground, scratching at the space under his missing eye. 

"A plan you weren't going to go along with."

"How do you know I wouldn't agree if you never saw fit to ask?"

"You won't even let me help you sleep. I could knock you out any time you asked, but you're too fucking stubborn to take help when it's offered."

"There is magic upon me. Tell me, if you knocked me out, could I wake myself up? Or would I be trapped, sleeping deeply, with no way out of the nightmare?"

Geralt opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I don't know."

"The last time I fell so hard asleep, as you said, my unwelcome visitor tried to turn me into an icicle. How, pray, does it make more sense to leave me defenseless every time I have to take a nap?"

"You wouldn't be defenseless. You'd have me."

Iorveth rose from the broken throne. Geralt saw his fists clenching, and he worried the elf might hit him. "For now. And what am I meant to do should you not be there? Am I meant to rely on you as a sleeping medication until you die? I am not a damsel in distress, witcher, nor am I a child you must lie to so he'll take his medicine."

"Oh, so you would have agreed to this plan."

"Yes. It seems a solid plan, now that I'm forced to be inside it."

Geralt snorted. "Easy for you to say now. Hindsight makes you more agreeable."

"I'm sorry, is the man who had to fight himself lecturing me on self-awareness?" Iorveth paused and squinted. "Is that a flower in your hair?"

The witcher reached up automatically, discovering a dogwood blossom tucked behind his ear where the youthful Iorveth had tucked his hair away. "Oh. You left it there. He left it there?"

"For the love of the gods, were you fraternizing with him?"

"No! Not much, anyway."

Geralt could see the tips of Iorveth's ears going red with rage, could see his jaw working, and almost hear grinding teeth. The elf took a deep breath and shut his eye, trying to release his tension. "Old habits die hard, I see. Very well. Youth is tempting, although I do not think I'd do the same in your position." He looked at the witcher again, eye deep and glassy-green. "Explain your plan. I didn't want to come here in the first place, and I'd like to get out of it as quickly as possible."

Geralt nodded, head spinning at the rapid turnaround. "When is the last time you saw the person in your dreams, exactly? In person."

"I told you. The Ravine of the Hydra."

"Just making sure. This is meant to be a facsimile of your memories. If you want to, if you can, I'd like you to take us to that place."

"Ah. Now I see why you assumed I would disapprove of your plan. You thought I'd be as reluctant as you to re-live the past."

His words stung, but Geralt could not deny it. Iorveth scoffed and turned away, gesturing for Geralt to follow. "It is near. This way."

"Are you sure?"

"Not all of us spent time playing at swords with ourselves, witcher. This is not the first memory I've wandered into since you knocked me out." 

Geralt silenced himself and followed after the elf, taking one last look over his shoulder at the beautiful grove. If Iorveth forgave him, Geralt would ask where this was. He twirled the dogwood blossom between his fingers and tucked it back behind his ear. It would look lovely wrapped in his scrap of red cloth.

Heat beat down on them from on high. Their walk in the woods had quickly become a painful, arduous trek up steep, sparsely-vegetated hills. By the time they reached the scene of Iorveth's near-death, Geralt's body ached in places he'd forgotten could ache. 

Soldiers in black lined the ravine, shackled elves numbering in the dozens waiting to plummet to their deaths. Iorveth lead him closer, along the chasm's edge. Iorveth held out his arm, forcing the witcher to pause. "I do not wish to go any further, nor do we need to." He nodded to three Nilfgaardian soldiers at the front of the line. "My erstwhile executioners. Failures all."

Iorveth crossed his arms and watched. Geralt ventured closer, noting with disgust that the ground, at least thirty feet below, had been fitted with sharp wooden spikes for skewering. 

They waited in silence as elves were marched by one by one. One of the soldiers unfurled a scroll to read their crimes aloud. The Nilfgaardians left room in the ceremony for last words, but few took it. Most simply turned to face the ravine and waited. The second soldier drew his sword and ran them through, then the third shoved the prisoner into the canyon. Most were dead before they hit the ground, but not all. Geralt counted thirty before he saw a familiar face.

"That's him."

The last two elves stood tall and proud, though battered. One had a face wickedly scarred, the other grizzled but unmarred as the day he reached manhood. It surprised Geralt a bit that he recognized them both. 

A two-eyed, tired, snarling Iorveth snapped at his captors. One cuffed him around the side of the head, sending him sprawling in the dirt.

"Isengrim Faoltitiarna." The scroll-bearer re-rolled his paper. "I don't need this for you. And that one, Iorveth, the worst of the worst, you two." The soldier nodded. "Pick him up. I will suffer them some little dignity."

The one who'd done the shoving picked Iorveth up by the collar. Blood dribbled from his lip where he'd been hit, staining his teeth and chin. "Traitors," he hissed, "M'Glaeddyvan que va'an, ell'ea?*" Bloody spittle dripped from his lips onto the ground. "Que va'an? Que l'en pavienn!*." 

"Hit him again."

The soldier obliged, bloodying Iorveth's face further. 

Isengrim stayed entirely composed, saying nothing. "Faoltitiarna, you do not deserve a good death. You and your filthy elves, your band of monsters, could not maintain the dignity of war. You killed indiscriminately. You outlived your use." 

Geralt could see the fear in the man's eyes as the elf looked down on him, perfectly calm. The scroll-bearer continued. "In your misguided attempts to further so-called elf liberation, you ensured your inferior brethren will die off, as the gods intended. We should set you to a pyre in the town square, cut off your limbs and toss you to the wild hogs while crowds cheer." The human's hands trembled a bit. With anticipation, perhaps? "We have our orders, and unlike some, we will execute them. With a little creativity, in your honor, sir. Bring him forward!"

The pusher shoved Iorveth forward towards the edge of the ravine and turned him around. 

"You die last, Iron Wolf. Watch the lest of your men perish, executed for your crimes." He turned to Iorveth and immediately got a faceful of spit and gore. Iorveth laughed and was hit again for his trouble. 

Another guard proferred a handkerchief, which the scroll-reader took gratefully. He got most of the expectorant, save for a bit on his cheek. 

"Hand me a spear."

"What? But sir, our orders-"

"I said, a spear."

The scroll-bearer took the weapon and snapped the head off over his armored knee. It was a jagged weapon, crudely made for herding prisoners rather than warfare. 

The man gripped Iorveth by the chin, fingers digging into flesh. "I've heard of you. Iorveth, the elf with a saint's face and a devil's temperament. I planned to let you die like the rest, but no. You don't deserve a good death, not after what and your filthy squadron did to the field hospital. Not after wiping towns off the face of the map. You, even more than your master, deserve to suffer." He gripped Iorveth harder. 

"It's too late for you to learn much from this lesson, alas, but you may appreciate it nonetheless." He brought up the spear, hooking the tip under Iorveth's lip. "Repent, and I may yet gift you a good death."

"A d'yaebl aép arse," the elf muttered around the metal. The soldier sighed and, with great force, pressed the spear upwards in a quick, jerky motion. Flesh separated, and blood sprayed, the soldier once again finding himself painted in Iorveth's blood. Where he cut the elf's flesh dangled open, exposing nerves and teeth in a horrific parody of a smirk. Iorveth screamed in pain.

The Iorveth, who was dreaming, touched his scar gingerly and did not speak.

The soldier did not let go of the elf's face, pressing the spear to the elf's cheek, harder and harder, until the blunted tip plunged into flesh again. Metal cut in jagged, uneven lines, blood pouring in lazy rivulets down Iorveth's face. 

"Give it here," the swordsman grumbled. The scroll-master hesitated for a moment but complied. The swordsman gripped Iorveth by the neck and leaned in close, hefting the spearhead in his hand. 

"Marvin of Lowry. Do you remember him?"

Pain addled the elf, but he shook his head. "Don't bother learning dh'oine names," he managed through blood and ruined lips. His voice came thick, red bubbles splattering on his mouth.

"He was my brother in law. Your lot ran through Lowry. One of you bastards pressed his eye out with your thumb. He died of infection. Medics couldn't get to him in time." He brought the spearhead up, waving it back and forth between Iorveth's eyes. "I can't remember which eye it was. Let's say..." He contemplated. 

"Let's say, right."

The swordsman hauled back and jammed the spear into the elf's face. Isengrim reacted, finally, shuddering in horror. Blood and clear fluid oozed down the elf's face as an inhuman scream of agony echoed across the landscape, louder and longer than anyone present had ever heard. It would haunt them all until their dying day. The soldier's revenge did not end there. 

He twisted the blade in the socket and pulled it out, then went in again. He missed the target and instead slashed the elf's face again, exposing his temple bone. 

Geralt thought he was going to vomit. Iorveth simply watched.

When the swordsman finished, Iorveth was barely conscious. He stepped back, moving to ensure Isengrim could see the soldiers work. "Not so fuckable now, eh? Don't think we didn't know. Nilfgaard knows all."

Isengrim did not speak but looked away from Iorveth's ruined face. This was all the reply he needed to give.

Without ceremony or speeches, he dropped the elf, watching as he plummeted onto the pile of bodies. "Let him bleed out. Won't be long now, and the bastard deserves it besides."

Geralt had to squint. The figures went blurry, and their voices somehow far away. 

"Bind the other one and drop him in the hole. Give him a few days to think about why he deserves to rot. If animals don't kill him, the heat will."

The figures faded into blurs, and then to nothingness. Iorveth had misremembered some parts. He recalled longer speeches and prettier words. One's mangling felt more meaningful if people make speeches over it. "The next thing I remember was something heavy falling on me, and then I passed out. From the pain." He gestured to his face. "You've seen it all. Wake me up."

Geralt starred as the scene began to change. "There's more."

"Oh, is there? Forgive me. You naturally know my memories better than I do."

"Not yours." Ice coiled in the witcher's stomach. "Mine."

Darkness fell over the ravine, early evening ceding its place to nighttime. Suddenly the sky cracked open, lighting and snow pouring through. Horses screamed, and riders wailed, making much sound and fury for so small a group. Six horsemen landed, and all but one dismounted. 

"Damnit. We can't hear. The storm drowned them out, and I didn't want to get any closer than that."

Iorveth looked where Geralt indicated, just able to make out his shape in the sparse shrubbery. "Ah, you were being honest by the lake when you said you’d saved me. Shocking, you've been so forthcoming thus far." He glowered, looking back to the scene unfolding before them. 

The five unseated horsemen hammered staves into the ground and tied off ropes, descending into the ravine with shocking grace for how bulky their armor was. Two more bodies came up with them.

One of the rescued elves was Isengrim, as evidenced by his alertness and lack of a fresh wound. He talked to the riders, growing more frustrated by the moment. The Huntmaster, he who had not deigned to dismount, spoke to his men over Isengrim. They dropped the other bode onto the ground. 

"What would the hunt want with me?" Iorveth sneered. "Him, I understand. He'd always had those lofty goals."

"I don't know."

Finally, one of the riders said something to Isengrim that shut him up. The elf blanched but found his tongue again shortly. The memory played out exactly as Geralt remembered it. Isengrim found his tongue. One of the riders magicked Iorveth back to the threshold of death, just close enough that he wouldn't bleed out immediately. They spirited Isengrim off to wherever it was the Wild Hunt took their victims. Geralt shuddered, pinpricks of memory stabbing through his psyche. Most, if not all, humans would be enslaved. What they did to elves, he did not know. 

"End this."

Geralt startled. "What?"

"It's clear what happens next. You mount a daring rescue of poor, old me, don't you? Drag me into the woods, bandage my face, and leave me. You have a predictably charitable nature, and I do not need to witness what I already know to be true." He couldn't look at the witcher. His head would not turn. "Wake us up." 

Geralt hurt all over. With no joy, he found his earlier suppositions to be correct- the injuries sustained within the dream-space replicated themselves perfectly on the conscious body. No slice or cut proved lethal, but he would be bruised tomorrow morning, although not nearly as severely as his ego.

He had known this would backfire. Thus was the lot of witchers. It didn't matter if a client was happy, just that a job got done. They didn't need to consent to any methodology a witcher used. There wasn't anything in the witchers code to mandate transparency of methodology. The problem got solved, a witcher was presumably paid. It didn't matter if the client liked the result. 

Iorveth was not a client, Geralt reminded himself. He'd known this plan would backfire and gone through with it anyway. Would he have been disappointed if Iorveth hadn't been angry? The hopeful boy in him still craved gratitude, but the cynical man needed to, what, punish that little spark? 

A war constantly waged between needing Iorveth to adore him, and hating the need. 

The witcher convinced his body to get up, even if his muscles screamed that he ought to stay put. He wasn't a mage, and while this magic had been designed for those without the gift, the toll his body paid for something that a sorcerer could do without blinking was incredibly high. 

He managed to stand, then sit back down immediately. His body betrayed him, and so witcher waited and watched as Iorveth blinked back to consciousness and rolled to his feet. Rage wrote itself on every inch of the elf. He was tense, coiled, like a cat expecting a dog to bite. 

"Do you still think the Hydra was your fault?"

Iorveth's back was to the witcher. He didn't turn around. "No. I didn't think it my fault before, which you would have known, had you asked."

"Right."

Without another word, Iorveth made to leave the room. Geralt stayed on his knees, contemplating where the elf's boots skidded and blurred the chalk lines. Iorveth made to exit the room and froze. 

"You son of a BITCH." 

Geralt barely had time to turn his head. Iorveth moved like elvish lightning, drawing a knife that Geralt did not know the elf had from his boot and slamming it into the far wall with a clang. Sparks flew from the old wall. Before Geralt could ask any questions, the elf flung the door wide and ran down the hall, shouting curse in the Elder Speech. 

Cold permeated the thick stone walls of Kaer Morhen. War brought unnaturally bad winters, but this was something else. Geralt struggled to his feet, stiff joints protesting all the while. He limped down the hall, worry building with every step. The further he went, the colder it got. Puffs of white escaped his lips, and frost tinged the walls. Outside Geralt caught glimpses of snow blown nearly sideways by the wind. He forced himself to work through the ache in his bones. He had no potions, nothing to evade the consequences of his bad decisions magically. With great effort, he managed a steady jog, following the echoing shouts and clangs until he reached the grand hall. 

He found the elf whirling from wall to table, to wall again, chasing a dark blur. Iorveth was practically foaming at the mouth, trying to catch wisps of smoke. Geralt shouted at him to stop, but too late. The apparition, barely a memory of Iorveth's nightmare, suddenly made a break towards the doors leading into the outer courtyard. In his gut, Geralt knew that should those doors open, it would go badly for him. For both of them.

Time seemed to slow as he tried to intercept the elf, but Iorveth was too fast for him in this weakened state. The apparition slipped between the small crack between the two slabs of oak and metal, prompting Iorveth to fling them wide to go after it. 

Snow and ice buffetted him, forcing the elf backward. Frost sparkled and crept across the flagstones. Iorveth paused, allowing Geralt to catch up with him. From the frozen night, so cold the air nearly glowed blue, a figure emerged. This was no ghost, no memory. Geralt did not know who it had come to dispatch. The snow got in his eyes, blinding him temporarily. 

The next thing he knew, Iorveth was yelling, and Geralt was on the ground, the elf's warm weight shoving him to the stones. 

Iorveth saw the knight draw a monstrous bow that, he would fancy later, had been carved from dead men's bones. The arrow gleamed inky black. He contemplated dodging, letting it fly wild, until he realized that he was not the target—the dark wraith aimed at the witcher. In a split second, Iorveth plowed his shoulder into Geralt. 

The arrow whizzed past, clipping his shoulder. Numb pain, near indescribable, lanced through his arm. It almost felt as if it had been dislocated, but he could still move it. The elf clutched his knife and looked at the rider. It was reaching to draw again.

Iorveth thought a prayer and flung the blade.

It did not land true. He'd been aiming for one of the dark holes in the figures mask, but instead hit it at an odd angle. The blade dented the helm badly before falling to the ground, and the knight screamed as jagged metal dug into his flesh. Iorveth rolled, shoving Geralt across the ice and out of the direct line of fire. The elf crashed gracelessly into a weapon rack. He shook the hair out of his eye and tried to re-focus, latching into the witcher. A bit of tension left him when he saw Geralt move, attempting to push himself back to his feet. Satisfied that the witcher would not die soon, Geralt snatched a wickedly curved scimitar from the rack behind him.

He made a note to thank Vesemir later, should the black rider not kill him.

The dark figure's bow clattered to the flagstones. Iorveth saw his opening. His feet barely touched the floor he ran so fast, building momentum until his sword clashed with the figure's shining, obsidian armor. Blinded and caught off guard, this sent the figure crashing to the ground. Before Iorveth could get another solid hit in the figure raised his arms. The impact jolted Iorveth's shoulder, the numbness from the arrow wound nearly letting the sword fall from his hands, but he barely faltered. 

Where the black knight had protection, Iorveth was unencumbered. As his opponent scrambled backward, Iorveth rained blows upon him, leaving gashes and wounds in the unnatural armor. 

Blood trickled onto the fallen warrior's neck from under his dented mask. Iorveth's blade had almost cracked it. The elf hated this creature, hated the visor shaped like a skull, and hated everything this strange man had come to stand for.

The knight managed to struggle to his feet and draw his sword. Iorveth grinned a horrible grin that had sent terror into the hearts of better men. "Good." He parried the knight easily as he struck. Iorveth's blows had at least wearied the knight, if not injured him. Cold bit into the elf's flesh as he slashed, leaning his full weight into the next blow. To the skull-helm, he hissed, "It's more fun when they can fight back."

To Iorveth's deep frustration, it seemed his opponent had no interest in going on the offensive. The elf gained more and more ground, which only made him press harder. He suspected an ambush, perhaps, waited for more specters clad in death to descend, but none came. Cold bit at his flesh, Iorveth's sword stinging his flesh. He could feel the skin on his knuckles crack and bleed, blood nearly burning. 

An arrow whizzed through the air, sliding cleanly between the knight's shoulder plates. Iorveth spared a glance over his shoulder, more than pleased to see the witcher standing at the door, re-loading a crossbow. The knight saw death, electing to turn-tail and run rather than face it like a hero. Iorveth was having none of it. He dropped the scimitar and leaped as far as is legs would carry him, tackling the knight to the ground. Iorveth pulled every dirty trick he knew- he shoved snow in the knight's visor to blind him, grabbed any stone he could to bludgeon him. He hissed, spat, kicked, and writhed like an oiled snake. He managed to pin the knight with his knee, snarling down upon the object of his nightmares.

Iorveth hooked his fingers under the knight's visor and wrenched it upwards. He needed to see this bastard's face before choking the life out of him. 

Silence came down with the snow. Iorveth did not want to believe what he saw, although he should not have been surprised. It was not a ghost, nor a hym, there on the ground. Flesh and blood Isengrim gasped up at Iorveth, blood trickling down his face from his broken visor. Blood seeped through the arrow wound, tinging the snow a dark and filthy red. 

"What?" Iorveth managed. His voice was strangled, tight. Isengrim replied by hauling his hand back to strike Iorveth, sending him tumbling through the snow. 

Shock sent all the battle rage out of Iorveth. He barely stood, gripping a wall to keep balance. Snow muffled Isengrim's footsteps as he gave Iorveth one last, lingering look, and made a beeline for the trees. Iorveth barely turned his head as Geralt crunched his way through the snow, didn't flinch when the witcher took him by the arm and guided him back inside, away from the wicked cold. 

  
  


*Are you going to stab me or what?  
*Well, are you? You're an ape!


	18. Ink and Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two must part, and oh, how sweet it is. Geralt misunderstands the goodbye, and you will be upset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been appyling to graduate school and taking the GRE which sucks, and also, I didn't want to finish this chapter 'cause after this Pain starts and, even though that's fun, it's hard to write my boys sad.  
> OHWELL IT MUST BE DONE enjoy :D

Geralt limped down to the main hall, intent on starting the biggest fire he could until his bones thawed. Joy, then concern, budded in him when he saw not only a roaring fire but his elf standing before the hearth. 

Nothing good could come of a confrontation now, but avoiding Iorveth might lead to a repeat of their horrid little back-and-forth dance earlier in the year. The witcher squared his shoulders as best he could and approached Iorveth. He tried to ignore the traveling clothes Iorveth had scrounged and tune out the bag sitting on the floor.

"So?"

"So."

Geralt chose to acknowledge the endraga in the room, hugging the elf from behind. He rested his chin on Iorveth's shoulder as best he could. The elf was warm. "Too cold for travel."

"For dh'oine."

"Wait until morning."

"Not this time."

Geralt tried again. "Please."

"You can ask as prettily as you like," Iorveth muttered, leaning into the witcher. "The thaw's started, I need to be off." He didn't want to go, but it needed to be done.

They watched the fire in silence, remembering.

Geralt helped Iorveth back into the keep. The elf allowed the assistance to a point, shaking the witcher off once their feet met flagstones again. In silence, they worked to shut the doors against the still-howling wind. Geralt let Iorveth latch the great iron bolts even though they would not be needed. The theater of security does much to ease a troubled mind. 

Several attempts were made by the witcher to twist his hand into the proper Igni sign, and all failed. He eventually relented, found a flint and steel, and finally convinced his hands to cooperate on the fourth attempt. Tinder caught, then twigs, then logs, and the great hall began to thaw. 

Iorveth picked his way through the puddles towards the witcher. 

"How's your shoulder?"

Blood, dark and sticky, glued Iorveth's shirt to his right shoulder. It wasn't enough to worry about, but his arm still felt numb. He gripped the soiled fabric and tore, exposing the wound. The knights arrow barely clipped him. Iorveth traced it with the tips of his fingers, grateful he'd suffered a clean cut.

"The wound's fine. If it's still numb tomorrow, we might want to worry. I don't want to think about it right now." He didn't want to go through another round of re-training his right hand as he had needed to with the left. He grabbed a stool and collapsed onto it, running his hands over his face. "I don't want to think about any of this, but I must." He looked askance at the witcher. "Will he come back tonight, do you think?"

Geralt shook his head. "Unlikely. The Wild Hunt aren't the type to send in a lone man like that, especially one who's willing to turn-tail after a single failure." Geralt adjusted his position, moving from a crouch to sitting on the stone. The floor still radiated with cold, but the fire was starting to do its job. "Was he solid?"

Iorveth nodded. "Very. He bled, as well."

"Then there should be a mage waiting for him in the woods, then. The hunt travels via magic."

"Portals, you mean."

"Sort of. The Hunt's mages are navigators, trained to make portals between worlds. They are used rarely. Usually, the hunt flies in a spectral form. Takes less energy."

"Mmm."

They watched the fire for a while. Iorveth broke the silence, grabbing a log and tossing it into the hearth in a shower of sparks. 

"May I speak frankly?"

"I'd prefer it if you did," Geralt replied. 

"Is it not interesting that the knight tried to kill you, and not me?"

"I wouldn't say interesting."

"Wouldn't you? I'd call it downright intriguing." Iorveth starred into the crackling fire. "Tell me why that might be."

Geralt thought, weighing his options. So much had happened in the space of an hour, he had to sort his head out before answering. He could almost feel the hand of his younger self on his shoulder, encouraging the witcher to unburden himself. 

He spoke slowly when he did. He had told Iorveth part of Ciri's story. Her origins, up to a point. Geralt hadn't the heart to force himself through the pain of remembering more. Now the time had come, and he needed to be honest. 

Iorveth sat in silence as Geralt told him about trying to rescue Ciri from the Lodge of Sorceresses. He struggled to describe his friends' deaths at Stygga castle, the burying of Angouleme, Cahir, and Milva. He talked of Emhyr var Emryss's unexpected generosity in letting Ciri go free, and the stories Ciri told him once they left that cursed castle. 

"She was taken by the elves. The Aen Elle, not your people," he added quickly. "Their king wanted her for the same reason Emhyr did. The Elder Blood prophecy says Ciri's children will save the world." 

"A perfectly reasonable cause for kidnapping a child," Iorveth sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Can't imagine why she wouldn't want to stick around to be a brood-mare. Not a bloody clue."

Geralt laughed, low and humorless, and continued. He told Iorveth about Ciri's escape from the Aen Elle's world with the unicorns' help, how she came to be captured, and brought to Stygga in the first place. "After I saved them, Ciri and Yennefer, we went on the path again. Dandelion almost got himself killed in Toussaint, and I had to save his ass from a royal execution. He and I went to Rivia, while Ciri and Yennefer delt with the Lodge. I don't know if they succeeded." Geralt touched his stomach gingerly. "I was busy bleeding out from a pitchfork to the guts. There was a riot in Rivia. Humans killed every nonhuman they could get their hands on. I remember Yennefer trying to save me, and she collapsed. I blacked out shortly after." He furrowed his brow. "I remember... a unicorn?"

Iorveth's eyebrows shot up. "Really? I thought they only appeared to virgin princesses."

"Seems they're a little less discriminating than you thought. I can't be sure, anyway. The next thing I knew, I was on an island surrounded by mist."

He told of his time with Yennefer on the Isle of Apples, recovering, where time could not touch him. He'd been missing for years in the real world, there he could have sworn it had been centuries. 

Envy welled up in Iorveth's throat, but he did not speak.

"Good things don't last. Eventually, the Wild Hunt found us. They took Yennefer with them and dropped me back here with nothing. I started searching immediately. On the path, I met Letho, I went to the Hydra. At Midwinter, I caught up with the Hunt and traded myself for Yennefer."

"You rode with them?"

"Yes." Geralt wanted to shudder. "Yes, I did."

He had seen the world of the Aen Elle, walked their halls. Whatever the nature of his deal, he found himself unable to flee. In trading himself to Eredin, he also gave away his will. No thought, no action, nothing he did happened without the express approval of Eredin. A pet witcher, the King's pet witcher. He was a novelty, on the most literal leash of his life. He said so, watching Iorveth's face go pale with rage.

"It's all a blur. Don't know if I'll ever remember everything that happened. Not sure I want to." He rubbed his temple, pain throbbing quietly behind the bone and skin. "Ciri came for me. She brokered some kind of deal, but I didn't come back whole. My first clear memory is waking up in the woods, three, maybe four miles from the keep." He paused for breath, to come back to earth. He found that, when he talked of his time with the Aen Elle, his mind went back to those cold and decadent halls. Geralt found no pleasure in the memories. "Nothing before that feels real. I don't know if it ever will. It's all like remembering a story someone else told you. No matter how vivid anything is, there's a mist between me and it."

Truth stung his tongue like thistles. He tried to keep talking but found he could not. Iorveth's hand, bare, still cold, came down on his shoulder with a gentility Geralt did not know the elf possessed. 

"I know the rest of the story. You don't have to say more if you do not wish to."

The witcher nodded, wishing, not for the first time, that he could cry. Instead, he leaned into Iorveth's touch and shut his eyes. 

"I'm still angry with you," Iorveth said, half-heartedly. "Not as angry as I ought to be, as there isn't a knife sticking out of your back."

"Don't blame you. I'll be frank this time- I'm surprised you saved me from that arrow."

Iorveth thumbed the witcher's shirt. The fire was slowly leaching the arrow's frost from his bones. "I can't let you die just yet, Geralt. It is imperative that you go on living for at least a while longer." 

Geralt snorted. "You're awful at sweet talk. When did that happen?"

Iorveth slid off his stool to the ground, settling in beside the witcher, leaning slightly until his right knee and shoulder met the witcher's left. "I was sweet in my youth. Time embitters the most honeyed of tongues. Sorrow, rage, age. These are not herbs to lighten the spirit, and as they whither, the taste grows still more bitter." Both men let their heads dip, coming together to touch each other a third time. "You got to sample that honey, yes?"

Iorveth pictured the witcher's awkward expression with great relish, adoring how uncomfortable the silence was. 

"You don't speak as sweetly," Geralt replied, "But you've still got plenty of honey in your lips." 

Geralt wanted to sink into the ground. Earnest speech, he could manage, even eloquent earnestness, but there was something in speaking poetry that made him feel like a youth again. He'd read poetry to young sorceresses camping nearby ages ago, snuck out with his brother-witchers to run ragged through the town. Iorveth was correct; time removed the verse from one's soul.

"Only my lips?" Iorveth teased. "Should I be jealous of my young self? He can't be that much better than me. Experience typically outweighs the vigor of youth." 

"He only kissed me. I wouldn't know about any other part of him." 

Iorveth jerked his head in surprise, hauling back to look at the witcher's face. "You jest."

"No," Geralt met Iorveth's eye with a curious squint. "That's not something I'd joke about." 

The elf reached forward, plucking the slightly-crushed flower from behind the witcher's ear. His other self had done an excellent job braiding it between the white strands. "Then why would he give you this," he mused quietly to himself.

Geralt put two and two together. "You have a sex flower."

Iorveth twirled the dogwood blossom between his fingers. "Yes, and no. Yes, I used to gift these to many people I made love to. No, it is not just a sex flower. Did you know," he continued, "That legend says carrying a dogwood flower with you will keep your meetings and conversations a secret?"

"That's almost more insulting than it being a sex flower."

"Is it? Then did you also know, carrying a handkerchief with a bit of dogwood sap and a flower folded in on Midsummer will grant the carrier his fondest wish." He looked at the witcher over the little flower, white tinged with the barest hints of red at each rounded petal's end. He tucked it back behind Geralt's ear. "It suits you." He sighed and turned to face the fire, lost in thought. "Once upon a time, I would have braided dozens in your hair after I'd worn you out. I'd have woven you a crown of ivy and blooms."

Geralt felt brave. "And now?"

"Now, I think one is enough. I don't need to announce who I've bedded to the world."

The witcher wouldn't have minded. He allowed the want in him the opportunity to voice itself. "I'd look pretty good in flowers and ivy. Maybe you should make one for me anyway, sometime."

Geralt could not comprehend the expression on the elf's face. "Maybe, sometime."

When morning came, Vesemir learned all and cursed himself soundly. He'd taken to imbibing certain concoctions before bed to ensure he would not intrude on anyone or hear anything he might regret. Although both Geralt and Iorveth assured him he had done nothing to wrong them, he vowed to never take another brew until spring came. 

Spring seemed like a distant fantasy. The storm of snow did not let up for nearly four days, and in that time, the residents of the castle found themselves grateful beyond measure for the elf's hunting skills. Witchers could hunt in the snow, but every moment of life was far more pleasant when one did not need to venture outside on a winter's morning. 

A week out from the attack, Iorveth brought up an idea the witcher hated.

"No."

"You can't just tell me no and expect me to obey."

"I can say no and try and convince you not to."

The elf sighed over his meal of cold salted venison. "It makes the most sense. The Hunt followed my dreams here. They tried to kill you. I don't like this solution any more than you do, but I do think it would be prudent for me to leave."

Geralt starred broodily out the window of the best room in Kaer Morhen. He'd quietly insisted the elf sleep there rather than the second-best. Depriving his guest of comfort felt silly, now. Geralt had woken up to an empty bed, fearing the worst. As he struggled into his trousers, Iorveth came through the door, food in hand. 

The elf settled in before broaching the idea. 

Now they sat at an impasse.

"There is no guarantee you'd be safe if you left," Geralt grumbled.

"There's even less of one I'd be safer staying, and at the least, you and yours are in more danger with me than without." He picked at the salted meat, wondering how much he could put in a traveling pack. 

He could feel Geralt's eyes on the back of his head. While larger, prettier, and more comfortable than the one he'd been in thus far, this room somehow made him distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the occasional whiffs of perfume, the brush tangled with auburn hair, or how stiff Geralt was every moment he was there. 

"It's not like it would be forever."

Iorveth smiled. Seven words, give or take one sacrificed on the altar of contractions, were all it took to change the mood from dour to hopeful. He didn't even need to turn around to know Geralt had perked up. 

"You made some good points between Vergen and Loc Muinne. Toussaint would be a lovely place to end up eventually. Nilfgaard's probably forgotten all about me. They think I died at the Hydra, so to them, I died at the Hydra. Admitting I'm alive would tarnish their oh-so-precious reputation, and Toussaint is practically its own country. Nobody pays it any mind." He picked at his nails. "There's a distant cousin of mine that way. Young, maybe thirty, but a good source of connection. She's a wine trader."

"Dangerous business," Geralt ventured, not bothering to hide the hope in his voice.

"Very. Easy for a lad to lose an eye should a wagon turn over on him. Not my fault I've got an unfortunate family name."

The bed creaked as the witcher rose. Geralt leaned forward to wrap his arms around Iorveth's neck, draping himself like an especially dangerous ermine coat. Iorveth continued.

"Ayn'aya has some business trading in Skellige as well, should Toussaint seem to hot a place to settle. The winters are harsh but tolerable."

Geralt nuzzled the elf's soft, dark hair. "Can't convince you to stay, can I?"

"Here? No. Vesemir would kill us in our beds from the racket we cause. Besides, I can't abide being cooped up. Travel's in my blood yet."

Geralt fascinated himself with the elf's dark locks. 

"At least one more night. Stay until morning."

"Maybe," he leaned against the witcher's chest, "I could be convinced."

"Look at me."

Iorveth turned his head, and Geralt caught his lips. Iorveth kissed back, cupping the witcher's face, running his fingers over Geralt's cheek. The angle was awkward, with Geralt double-over and Iorveth twisting to latch himself to the witcher's face, but they made do. When their position became too painful on his shoulder to bear, he pulled away and searched Geralt's face. "I do enjoy it when you try to show off for me, Geralt. You ought to do it more often."

Gears turned in Geralt's head, and an idea burst forth. He untwined from Iorveth and grabbed the chair, spinning it and the elf around to face him. Iorveth didn't have time to react before Geralt rested his hands on the chair's back, pinning the elf. The witcher leaned in, resting his knee on the seat.

"Don't stop now. One shouldn't half-mount a steed, the same is true of a man," Iorveth drawled, running his hands up Geralt's thighs. 

Slightly awkward, Geralt fully straddled Iorveth. He didn't have the same practice, either in quantity or activity, that Iorveth did, nor the panache, but he did have a deep and unrelenting desire to impress and surprise the man beneath him. 

He released his grip on the chair with one hand, sinking his nails into Iorveth's flesh just above his belt. The elf groaned, and Geralt silently thanked him for his propensity to forgo shirts after bed-time. The witcher dragged his hand upwards, leaving five red welts up Iorveth's torso, his chest, and finally coming to rest at this neck. It pleased him to no end, seeing his mark, his evidence, upon Iorveth. He leaned in and ran his tongue along the shell of the elf's pointed ear, nipping the point playfully. Iorveth's hands abandoned Geralt's thighs in favor of his waist, pulling gently to urge the witcher onto his lap. Geralt did not acquiesce to the implied request. 

Instead, he gripped Iorveth's throat just tight enough to threaten, not enough to harm, squeezed. He could hear Iorveth's pulse quicken, felt the elf's cock harden, and relished the moan from his mouth as Geralt relaxed his grip. He squeezed again and ground down with his hips. Iorveth bucked upwards demandingly, and Geralt had to suppress a moan of his own as one of Iorveth's hands shifted to the witcher's bulge, palming and teasing. 

A wicked idea percolated within the witcher. Once Geralt had been to a bear-baiting and watched men poke and prod the animal until it foamed at the mouth. Once suitably riled, the bear was released to wreak havoc on the poor bastard in the arena. 

Geralt pressed forward with his hips and torso, pinning Iorveth to the chair with his bulk. He shifted until he looked down upon Iorveth's flushed face.

He had no words for beauty better than Iorveth's name. 

The elf tried to sit up, but Geralt held him back. Something between frustration and curiosity twinkled in the elf's eye, leaning further towards the latter when Geralt told him to put his hands behind his head. Iorveth groaned most deliciously as the witcher released his throat. With his free hand, Geralt whipped off his belt and wove it deftly between Iorveth's wrists and through a decorative hole in the chair, pinning them there. 

"Did you miss seeing me bound so dearly?" Iorveth teased.

"Couldn't you tell?" Geralt pulled away and stood up, prompting Iorveth to whine dramatically. His vocal protests ceased when Geralt got on his knees. "You look good with your hands behind your back."

"I look better when they're on your head."

Geralt narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"Because," Iorveth licked his lips, "If my hands are on your head, that means your mouth is around my cock."

Geralt couldn't help but laugh, sliding Iorveth's trousers off his hips. "You like pushing me around, huh?"

"I prefer pushing you down, but the principle's the same." He tried to keep his voice smooth and unaffected even as his arms strained against the belt. It cut into his flesh deliciously. How well the welts would look later, crisscrossing his flesh like some disturbing birthmark. 

Geralt moved between Iorveth's knees and breathed on Iorveth's naked thighs, pressing kisses to the warm flesh. His eyes drifted shut, hands trailing over his skin, drinking the elf in. He moved in leisurely, listening for the elf's reactions. There was something that felt so deliciously wrong about depriving Iorveth of his hands. Geralt's skin bore the testament to how much Iorveth liked to scratch and grab at the witcher, nights and nights of sex both wild and tender. No passion passed without some bite or scratch. Iorveth, it seemed, was incapable of letting the witcher go unmarked. 

Iorveth's breath caught in his lungs as Geralt ghosted his fingers over the elf's thighs. He thought back to the temple of Melitele, Iorveth looming over him like a king while Geralt came in the elf's hand. The witcher cracked an eye to catch Iorveth watching him with all the focus of a starving hawk. Still, somehow, trussed up and at Geralt's mercy, the witcher felt he was in service rather than in control.

He wanted to mind but found he did not. 

Nuzzled into the crevice of Iorveth's thigh, Geralt nipped at the delicate flesh. Iorveth had so few soft spots on him that Geralt had been delighted to find this one, fascinated by the silky texture of this private place. He nipped again, and the muscles beneath jumped in response and Iorveth's cock twitched. 

"Fucking tease," Iorveth gasped as he watched, unblinking. 

Geralt opened his mouth a little wider, moving up from nipping to biting. The elf hissed and opened his mouth to say something, but lost his breath when Geralt sucked upon the spot he'd elected to abuse with such malice. Iorveth's head rolled back, fingers flexing and grabbing at nothing. Geralt pulled away with a "pop", pleased with the uneven, purple mark he'd left.

"Other side needs one to match." Geralt licked and nipped his way to the other side, pausing to run his tongue over the base of Iorveth's cock. Geralt half expected the elf to wrap his legs around him, pulling the witcher close in an attempt to force more intimacy, but Iorveth held his ground through Geralt's teasing. 

As if to test Iorveth's resolve, Geralt spidered one of his hands up the inside of Iorveth's thighs, thumbed the little bruise enough to hear Iorveth nearly gasp, and ventured downwards. 

Geralt's hand slid to touch one of Iorveth's buttocks, gripping and encouraging the elf to lift his hips. He obeyed the mute request without complaint, growing ever more desperate for release. The witcher hands left streaks of sensation on the elf's flesh, callouses raising goosebumps and small shudders in their wake. He loved Geralt's hands, how strong and strangely limber they were. If he were blindfolded he might have confused them for an elf's, but the shape of them, the rough skin, made them unmistakable. Were he fully blinded, Iorveth thought, he would still know the witcher's hands if they touched him.

Iorveth's attention ricocheted between deciphering Geralt's plan for the night, how far the ever-growing collection of bruises expanding out on both thighs would go, and where Geralt planned to put his hand. The latter mystery, at least, solved itself. Geralt pressed his thumb to the delicate patch of flesh between Iorveth's balls and his asshole, rubbing the tight bundle of nerves until Iorveth could not keep his cool facade any longer. His eye rolled back and he bit his lip hard, refusing to let Geralt have the satisfaction.

The elf nearly cried out when Geralt pressed his index finger to his hole, prodding just as incessantly as his thumb rubbed. The trio of sensations- biting, massaging, and prodding- made Iorveth squirm against the chair. He couldn't speak for fear he'd moan like a virgin, his fingers had nothing to grab at but his palms, and the witcher looked in no hurry to finish what he'd started. Geralt had robbed Iorveth of control, and the elf loved it. His head lolled back in ecstasy, submitting to the witcher's ministrations. 

He got perhaps three more minutes before every physical sensation left him, Geralt pulling away without warning. Iorveth's head shot up, and he glared blearily down at his lover. He barely managed to ask, "What the fuck are you doing?" before Geralt got to his feet again without a word. 

"At least," Iorveth mused, "I can look at his ass when he walks away."

Aloud, he said, "You stoic son of a bitch."

He did love that ass dearly, firm and pleasant to the touch. You wouldn't know it for all the armor witchers wore, but at the very least, Geralt had a rump to take pride in. In Iorveth's opinion, it had just the right balance of fat and muscle. He couldn't abide men without an ounce of softness to them. It either belied malnutrition, which was not fun for anyone, or a vanity that did not speak well of the ass's owner. No, Geralt had the ass of someone who came by his strength honestly, ate well when he could, and had the soft cheeks to prove it. 

Iorveth could spend hours between them and would love to do so if Geralt would fucking untie him. 

As Iorveth sat and pondered his rear, Geralt pawed through his things until he found his little stash of oil. In moving to this room he'd misplaced it, and while they'd had a good time in between its losing and finding, he was relieved to have remembered where the bottle was stored. 

"You like pain. It's something I appreciate about you, but I think you'd prefer I have lubed fingers rather than dry." Geralt brought the oil with him, popping the cork and sending it off into some corner of the room to be forgotten. He had more, and tonight, he wanted to use the entire bottle. He returned to his position between Iorveth's knees, worshipful, and leaned in to lick playfully at the tip of Iorveths cock. The elf shivered a little, but no more. He'd braced himself. If Geralt wanted him to scream, he'd have to work harder than that. 

Lucky for both of them, no witcher is wholly averse to hard work. Even more fortunate, Geralt relished it.

He drizzled oil on his index and middle fingers. Normally he'd take time to warm it in his hands, but tonight the chill was more of a positive than a detriment. He gently rubbed Iorveth's sensitive bud, and the elf's back arched sharply.

"FUCK, that's cold, you bastard! What're you playing at?"

"Not playing  _ at _ anything, just playing  _ with _ you." Geralt smirked up at the elf coquettishly through his eyelashes. He leaned forward, and just as his first knuckle entered Iorveth he took the elf's cock in his mouth.

Iorveth could not grab, could not push, but he could thrust. A wise warrior utilizes all of his tools, and Iorveth had lived long enough to become very wise. He managed to te an extra inch in the witcher's mouth, which Geralt tolerated for a moment or two, but pulled back just as his second knuckle entered Iorveth, plunging back and forth slowly. Iorveth groaned, genuinely this time. Gerallt returned to teasing and bruising Iorveth's thighs, tonguing his bollocks, barely paying any attention to his cock save to give it a passing lick as he moved back and forth. 

Once Iorveth was torture to his satisfaction, Geralt spoke.

"You wanna play this game, you have to abide by the rules. I'll tell you the first one- You don't thrust until I tell you to. You do that, and I stop again. Understood?"

Geralt tried to sound commanding and found, to his surprise, a seductive, husky tone in his voice. It did not have the intended effect on Iorveth, but Geralt liked the one it did have better. 

"Understood. May I know the other rules now, Master Witcher?"

Geralt shook his head, satisfied to find his first finger had bottomed out in Iorveth's ass. "You learn them by breaking them."

Iorveth's mouth quirked up into a smirk. "How unfair. I like it. I shall try my best to be good, then. I presume there's a reward for me eventually?"

"Yes. And you'll have to be patient to find out what it is."

"Ah, a surprise, then. I can't wait."

Satisfied that Iorveth understood his intentions, Geralt leaned in again to take the elf's cock in his mouth a second time and press his second finger into him. He could feel Iorveth's hips tremble with effort, trying to stay still as Geralt fucked him with his fingers. The herculean effort did not go unrewarded, and Geralt slowly started a steady rhythm with his head and tongue. He'd had practice at the temple, servicing the elf every night before bed as Iorveth's hand healed. By now, he'd learned how Iorveth liked it when the witcher curled his tongue just so along the edge of Iorveth's cock, or where along the shaft Geralt could suck to produce the loudest moans. 

Iorveth failed to obey the instructions twice. The first time was intentional, testing the waters and Geralt's resolve, and the second an accident of instinct brought on by how slow Geralt was going. He hoped this would pick up, watching the witcher service him with frankly frightening focus.

The witcher worked his way down slowly, lowering himself another inch with each painful stroke. His fingers matched his mouth's speed, working in and out until Iorveth was perfectly slick. When Geralt's lips met skin he extracted his fingers, to which Iorveth protested.

"Fuck you, witcher, what rule did I break?" 

Geralt pulled back and pointedly picked up the lubricant bottle. "I can't get another finger in you without more of this. Rule two: Don't be petulant."

Iorveth had to laugh. "Oh, fuck me, really?"

"And rule three-" He returned his single finger to Iorveth's insides. "-It's Geralt, or Master Witcher tonight. You call me by my name, or you admit I've got power over you. Either, both-" He pressed the second finger in easily, "-So long as I know it's me you're moaning for, I'm happy."

Iorveth tried to wriggle himself so Geralt's fingers went deeper, or touched the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him, but the angle of the chair and the leather restraints on his arms made that quite impossible. Every time the elf tried to get himself more pleasure, the witcher slowed down until he stopped entirely, two fingers in up to the hilt and not moving at all.

"Blast it, fine, fine,  _ Geralt _ . I'll do as you say, just keep moving."

"Keep moving….?"

The elf huffed. He could say no at any moment and this would be over, he could see this on Geralt's face. If he wasn't enjoying himself it would be as easy as a change of tone, and the witcher would unbind him, and it would be like this whole affair hadn't happened. 

"Please keep moving, Master Geralt. Please touch me more." If the witcher's name was good, and Master was good, surely both together would be even better. He was right.

Geralt's name said so in such a breathy voice practically made his heart flutter. Iorveth asked so prettily, Geralt didn't have the heart to deny him. The witcher curled his fingers and dragged them over Iorveth's most sensitive spots and pulled back. Iorveth tried to say "thank you", but failed and only managed to mumble. He forgot himself again when Geralt pushed a third finger into him, and then eventually a fourth. 

Keeping his mouth shut proved too much for Iorveth. He could no longer tell the difference between pain and pleasure, both shooting overstimulating bolts up his body every time the witcher moved. He would either need to scream or beg, and Iorveth was not the begging kind.

"Gods DAMN you, Geralt, do something else! You're fucking KILLING me, you bastard."

He almost hated the witcher's smile, but not nearly as much as he loved it. Geralt had a plan, and Iorveth had played right into it. 

Iorveth felt achingly empty without Geralt's fingers inside of him. The witcher wiped his hand on his discarded trousers. 

"I suppose this is where a new punishment comes in?" the elf ventured, eye Geralt up and down hungrily. He had no reason to pretend to be obedient anymore. Geralt's teasing left the elf wanting, and what the elf wanted was to plough Geralt until Iorveth could spend enough seed in him to sow ten acres. 

"Depends on your idea of a punishment."

Iorveth could barely keep himself from trembling in excitement. The leather belt on his arms cut into him as he tried, for the thousandth time, to reach out and touch the witcher. His mind knew he was restrained, but his body insisted Iorveth try to break free anyway. The wooden chair creaked from the strain he was putting it under. At the beginning of this little exercise, Iorveth might have worried about breaking the chair, but he barely cared now. Geralt climbed on top of him again. Iorveth's skin burned everywhere Geralt's touched him- thigh, chest, stomach. He disobeyed the rules again, grinding his hips upwards into Geralt. The witcher poured most of the remaining oil on his hand. Iorveth's eyebrows shot up in curiosity, and then yet further, when the witcher carefully used the rest to coat his other hand. 

Geralt left him no time to ask questions. One hand went down to Iorveth's cock, and the other behind to prepare for the aforementioned cock. 

If Geralt teasing him before was bad, this was worse. He barely gripped Iorveth, touching him just enough to send the ghost of pleasure into the elf and coat him in oil. Geralt was much kinder to himself, Iorveth could see, imagining how lovely it would be to be the one prising the witcher open, preparing him to take the elf up to the hilt. 

Iorveth gnashed his teeth, hands balling into fists so tight his nails left frustrated crescents in his palm. He did not try to speak, just snarled, wriggled, writhed, bucked, anything to get the barest bit of new sensation. Geralt did not stop this time, but his steady pace and light touch did not abate. Glancing caresses sent electric want down Iorveth. How the little attention paid managed to overstimulate Iorveth did not know. Out of curiosity, he'd read about the alleged tingling touch innate to every witcher and wondered if that was why he found Geralt's touch electric. When the witcher was not present, Iorveth could imagine that as truth, but the moment he felt Geralt's fingers, he knew no one in all the world would feel this way, flesh to flesh. 

The last straw came when Iorveth saw Geralt's eyes slide shut and shoulders roll back. Iorveth knew that look intimately. He couldn't tolerate seeing it without feeling Geralt clench around him, being responsible for what the elf knew to be utter bliss. The witcher did not spend his seed on Iorveth's chest, but he might as well have. 

With a great push, Iorveth strained against the belt, leather creaking and straining. Geralt came back to earth in time to witness the chairback bowing, tiny splinters bending where wood broke. The bear was baited and if the witcher played his cards right, it would bite. One smooth movement removed him from the chair and leaned Geralt against the table, barely a foot away. Through his aroused haze, Iorveth found himself in admiration of Geralt for managing to look so smug and composed while totally naked. 

"Fuck is this?" he managed through gritted teeth. 

"You want me, you come and get me."

Geralt wondered which would hold longer, the leather or the chair. Neither was new, and they'd both seen their fair share of wear. 

Iorveth stilled, shut his eyes, and clenched his fists. If the witcher wanted a show of strength, he'd get it. He could feel Geralt's eyes on him, the hungry yellow, and Iorveth felt a surge within him. His shoulders tensed, and he moved his wrists apart, snapping both leather and the little decorative loop in the back of the chair in one sharp jerk. 

He saw something like awe on the witcher's face and could not help himself, pouncing on Geralt and shoving him onto his backside. 

"You shouldn't tease, he growled, wedging himself between Geralt's thighs. 

"I should tease more if it gets me this," Geralt retorted, leaning in to press his lips to Iorveth's collar bone. He tensed, because Iorveth had reached his hands between Geralt's legs to test how well he'd done lubing himself. Apparently satisfied, Geralt readied himself as he felt Iorveth press gently against him, but did not receive satisfaction. Iorveth rutted against Geralt, rather than push inside him. 

"I could take care of myself right here, right now, and leave you whining on the table for that little stunt," he snapped, adrenaline pumping through his veins. It felt good to break out of those bonds, clutching the witcher against him. "I could bind you right back and get myself off all night until you're begging me to cum- you think you can torment a man?" He pushed forward again, rubbing his entire length against the witcher's entrance. Geralt tried to angle his hips, but only served to torment himself more. Iorveth laughed, deep in his chest, and purred in the witcher's ear. "One day, I'll show you exactly what I can do with a rope and a few hours, for now, though, I want to watch you finish while I'm inside you."

Iorveth pulled back and moved his hands to the witcher's hips, anchoring his fingers at the bone. This put Geralt at a precarious angle, forcing the witcher to throw his hands back onto the table to support himself. He was provided a spectacular view of the elf, head bowed, pushing unceremoniously inside Geralt. He was neither gentle nor slow, and Geralt relished the slight pain. A witcher can will his body to relax, and Geralt took full advantage to enjoy every thick, powerful inch of Iorveth. 

Without warning, with still a bit left to go, Iorveth grabbed Geralt and wrenched him forward. Geralt lost traction and barely managed to catch himself, back hitting the table. Iorveth sank the rest of the way into him and loomed over the witcher simultaneously, forcing Geralt to look him in the eye. 

Iorveth could have stayed, lordly, over Geralt, but he couldn't resist being this close, nor keep up the pretense of coldness. Geralt came up as Iorveth leaned down, and they met int he middle as Iorveth rolled his hips backward to coax a moan out of the witcher's throat. His voice vibrated against Iorveth's lips, prompting him to perform the motion again, slower, prolonging it. 

Geralt lifted his legs and wrapped them tight around Iorveth's waist. They could play at teasing one another for only so long before the joy they found in one another took over. Iorveth took the hint, picking up a more steady pace as Geralt slid his hand up the elf's neck, pausing to thumb a sensitive spot at the base of the elf's skull. He hadn't expected it, and so thrust with a little more urgency than intended as the witcher's touch echoed down Iorveth's back to his tailbone. 

"Naughty witcher," he mumbled against Geralt's lips, pulling back to pepper Geralt's jaw with kisses. His eye shut and he couldn't help but gasp as Geralt's fingers crept upwards, tangling in Iorveth's hair, making a gentle fist. He did not pull more than a little to let Iorveth know he was there, sighing as the elf settled his weight forward and slid his hands under Geralt's waist, clutching him as Iorveth picked up speed. 

Geralt could not speak like this, so lost was he in the delight of being Iorveth's. Instead, he let go, allowing his body to react as it wanted. He was not practiced at this, but Iorveth marked every grunt and whispered oath the witcher took. The elf clutched him tighter, twining around Geralt like ivy does around the oak, and Geralt sat up to embrace him in kind. 

His favorite spot to grip when they were like this, Iorveth dominating him, on top of him, was Iorveth's shoulder blade. There Geralt could feel the muscles, powerful, rippling with effort as Iorveth fucked- no, not fucked- as Iorveth  _ took  _ him. 

He could feel Iorveth getting close, but before he could say anything, the elf disentangled an arm to grip Geralt's shaft. The witcher barely managed a "thank you" before the words were knocked from his mouth by Iorveth redoubling his efforts and lifting Geralt, one-armed, by the waist to push down as best he could. 

Maybe Geralt would have been disappointed by their tender, if possessive, coupling if it had been any other partner. The teasing was fun for teasing's sake, and did not need to lead to wild nights spent sweating and tossing. He was more than satisfied, delighted in fact, to be bent over a table and enjoyed. 

"Don't go traveling on me." Iorveth broke him out of his reverie, and Geralt found himself just on the edge of climax. "I want to see it in your eyes when you finish, Geralt. Look at me, honey-eyes."

Geralt did as bid, focusing all his attention on Iorveth. He could drift when they fucked because it felt so good, his body cutting his brain off. Iorveth was overstimulation personified, and Geralt could not control his body if he felt Iorveth's skin on him, his hair, heard the elf's ragged breathing, smelled his sweat. Now, with all his memories and experience, Geralt could ignore nothing about Iorveth. It ate him up, crashed over him, drowned him. He almost couldn't finish, caught in a perpetual loop of rising and falling in Iorveth's shadow. 

"That's the look, that's it-" Iorveth's voice clipped as Geralt tumbled, eyes glazing over as the elf made him cum. The room went dark at the edges, and Geralt knew nothing but Iorveth's face and the wracking, intense orgasm tearing him asunder. 

Iorveth did not blink. He barely drew breath as he chased the witcher. It was times like these he wanted to stay forever and destroy Geralt every night, taking advantage of the Seov and it's natural inclination to amplify emotions and feelings. He'd wait, toying with the witcher until he, too, became so wrapped up in Geralt he might feel naught but joy in his presence. 

How lovely would it be to grow, to wait, to feel that unnatural love overtake all else? 

These thoughts came with him as Iorveth came inside the witcher, as was custom. He whispered Geralt's name into his ear, gripping any flesh he could find purchase on, trembling in time with Geralt as they experienced eternity in each other's arms. 

The aftershocks rolled through them, and Geralt could have sworn he came again in the aftermath. 

The witcher found his tongue first. "Better every time."

Iorveth laughed and smiled against Geralt's jaw. "Good enough to make me stay another night, and more besides." 

"I'll try to keep you convinced." Geralt ran his hands through Iorveth's shaggy hair. Now that it no longer went days between washes, he noted a slight curl to some parts, here and there amongst the thick, black locks. 

"How much over 20 stone do you weight?" 

Geralt narrowed his eyes at Iorveth. "I don't. Closer to eighteen than twenty."

Iorveth braced himself and heaved, leveraging Geralt up enough to toss them both onto the bed. Geralt, who was not a fool, saw this coming and helped a little in the process, but still couldn't help but be impressed. He rolled them onto their sides, tangling legs and drawing furs and blankets over them to ward off the cold. Iorveth laid his head against Geralt's chest, and Geralt took the opportunity to continue playing with his hair. 

"You can't get enough of that, can you?" Iorveth remarked. 

"Correct."

"Mmm. You're welcome to my scalp whenever you wish, in that case."

Geralt could not braid hair nearly as well as Iorveth could, but he did enjoy combing the tangles away. In a fleeting moment of fantasy, he wondered what it would be like to touch Iorveth's hair in his youth. How long and silken it had looked. 

"Why did you cut it off?"

Iorveth cracked his eye open, annoyed to be brought back to reality just as he was dozing off. "Lots of elves do when they join the scoia'tael. Long hair is a detriment in war more often than it is a boon."

"Plenty of warriors have long hair."

Iorveth snorted. "You have an obsession, don't you? I've gotten in bed with a fetishist." He had his laugh, but calmed quickly. "Some of us feel it is necessary to get a chop because we are making up for something. I've had mine short since Aelirenn." 

He swallowed. "Perhaps it is time to cut it again."

Geralt continued to pet the elf. "Would you wait a little?"

Iorveth quieted, starring over Geralt's shoulder into the dark. 

"I can. For a little while."

_ For you _ , he did not say.

  
  


Every night Iorveth would mention leaving, and Geralt would ask for one more morning. Iorveth relented, but the month of Yule crawled on, and the snow began to melt. Winter threatened to end early, surprising for how harsh it had been initially. Geralt suspected some god had elected to spite him, particularly if he didn't believe in them. 

He'd known, waking up before dawn began to peek her golden head over the mountains, that today he would not convince the elf to stay. 

Still, he tried.

Expected goodbyes still ache. 

From some mysterious place, Geralt produced a slip of paper, holding it between his fingers. "I have one request before you go."

"What fairytale do you dwell in, where you can ask me a favor before I go off into the world?" Iorveth took the paper despite his words. Upon it was a simple drawing of a flower, four-petaled, tipped in bloody red. "It's a dogwood blossom. What do you want me to do with this?"

Geralt nodded to Iorveth's pack. "I want you to take out your needles and put it on my skin. I'm pale enough you won't need white ink."

Iorveth's eye flicked from the paper to Geralt's face. "Can witchers even be tattooed? I'd assume you'd heal over the ink or something like that." He looked at the paper critically. The design was terribly simple. Dawn was two, maybe three hours away. He could still set off well before noon if he obliged the witcher.

Pleasure rolled deep in his belly at the thought of inscribing something of permanence on the witcher. His bites only lasted so long. It seemed the only scars that stayed were the near-deadly ones. 

"Hey, if I hate it," Geralt said, "I can always just slice the skin off. It'll heal good as new, no harm done."

Iorveth snorted with mirth. "An appropriately witcheresque solution."

Iorveth shucked off his traveling coat and laid it beside his bag, from which he extracted the little wooden box so helpfully provided by Nenneke. He'd mixed green and red ink to add to the kit, as all she'd provided was black. 

Geralt sat himself down, waiting patiently as the elf arranged his tools. 

"So?" Iorveth asked, pulling up a stool.

"What?"

"Where am I to mark you, witcher? Unless you'd like me to choose." The elf smiled wickedly. "I think you'd look absolutely charming with a posy on your arse cheek."

"Maybe next time, if you do a good job." He returned Iorveth's smile, slipping his shirt off. "I was thinking here." He tapped the center of his chest. 

Iorveth starred at the indicated spot. He'd tapped the start of a long, thick scar from the witcher's chest to his navel. "You've chosen poorly. May I suggest your arm? Thigh? Literally anywhere that isn't over your solar plexus?"

Geralt quirked an eyebrow. "I've been sliced open, stabbed, burned, and bitten. Will it hurt less than having my throat torn out?"

The elf frowned. "No. But it won't be pleasant."

"You're jabbing a needle into my skin. Don't expect it to feel good."

Iorveth leveled him with a judgemental stare but relented. "Fine, but you must promise me one thing." He picked up the needle and dipped it into the black pigment.

"What?"

"You must promise that, once I start, we don't stop until the work is done."

The witcher grinned, cocky and confident in himself. "You have a deal."

"Get on the table and lie back."

Geralt regretted his confidence almost immediately. As the first jab penetrated his skin, he noticed a harsh, burning sensation come with it. He managed five more pokes before asking, through gritted teeth, "Burning? What's in that bottle?"

The elf paused. Geralt thought he saw a look of distinct realization, then horror, cross Iorveth's face before he settled back into intense focus. "Alcohol and coal dust, for the black."

"That explains the burning sensation." It wasn't the worst pain he'd ever felt, but that did not render the sensations pleasant. He needed to keep talking to distract himself. "And the red?"

"Iron. Dh'oine have a penchant for mercury, but I prefer people to survive after I work on them."

Geralt chuckled, which hurt. "If you feel like experimenting with poisonous inks, I'd probably be fine." 

Iorveth glanced up from his work. "Yes, but I can't guarantee your body would heal well. You could scar, or get an infection, or some other thing unforeseeable. Should you wish to seek out a lesser artist, you may, but I will mock you soundly if the result is anything less than perfect as I have now informed you of the dangers. Also, warn me before you laugh."

"Why?"

"It is difficult to jab ink accurately into shaking skin."

"Makes sense."

Stinging pain radiated into a dull, burning ache from Geralt's poorly-selected spot. He could feel his chest vibrating with every dip and tap of the needle.

"I won't be doing this again until I can get some proper tools," Iorveth muttered. 

"What tools?"

The elf grumbled something about wooden handles and clusters of needles, which Geralt could not quite make sense of, but it sounded very complicated. As Iorveth's single eye bore into the witcher's skin, his hands pulling the flesh taut, Geralt fancied the needle would push through skin, through muscle, down to the bone, inscribing his very self. 

He knew this was not the case, but the little fantasy allowed him to temporarily ignore the pain. 

The acrid smell of witch hazel stung Geralt's nose, and he felt Iorveth wipe his chest. 

Hours passed. Geralt saw milky dawn creeping up in the great windows, sending the white reflection of snow across stones. He focused on the ceiling, counting cobwebs and listening to mice scrabble over buttresses. 

Iorveth sat back just as proper morning rose overhead. The snow would be melting, cold evaporating over the mountains with the mists. The elf admired his work. He'd made something simple. Just as the witcher had asked- a single four-petaled flower, no more, no less. Part of him itched to continue. He could add a twig to the flower, then leaves, maybe a cluster of blossoms. 

He shook aspirations of art out of his mind. "There. You're done. Keep it clean, don't let it get too much sun-"

"I know. I heard you complain before." Geralt propped himself up on his elbows, pleased to see a little pink tint the apples of Iorveth's cheeks. The witcher looked out the window and swore. "I should have asked for a more complicated piece. This barely slowed you down."

Iorveth managed a cocky smile despite how much Geralt's words stung, sweet and saddening. "I'm a professional with ages of practice. It would need to be very complicated to put a dent in my plans."

Geralt did not respond, ghosting his fingers over his skin. 

"You might have that forever."

"Best case scenario."

Iorveth wanted to feel nothing, but his chest was heavy. "You could have found some less permanent way to make me stay," he quipped, packing his sparse equipment back in their little box. "A tattoo is a bit ridiculous."

Geralt looked at the little flower. His skin really was pale enough that it needed no white pigment at all, and the splotches of red on each petal stood out like fresh wounds. "Meant to ask for this earlier, but I thought you'd say no. It's not just to stall you."

The box was tucked safely back into Iorveth's satchel, bundled in clothes and lovingly buried under everything else. "No?"

"No."

"Don't be mysterious, Geralt."

The witcher finished sitting up and slid his shirt back on, almost wincing where the harsh cloth rubbed against the blossom. "Fabric decays. Flowers die. Mementos get lost. Memories go. Can't forget if it's on my skin, can I?"

Iorveth ran his hand up his left arm, felt the burn scars, and remembered his needle jabbing repeatedly to bring back faded or damaged images. "No, I suppose you can't." His voice threatened to crack. "I'm honored you'd want so permanent a fixture." He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump suddenly blocking it. It didn't work. "Would you ask the same of me?" he joked. "Shall I etch your name on my arm in a red heart, like a besotted soldier boy?"

Geralt rose to his feet, taking Iorveth's shoulder and turning the elf to face him. Geralt pulled him close, and Iorveth reciprocated the embrace, arms encircled the elf's waist while Iorveth's automatically snaked around the witcher's shoulders and back. "You could do that if you wanted, but I don't need you to do anything you don't want." He grinned. Iorveth could feel it against his jaw. "It's not a long name. What d'you think, "Ger" on one cheek, "Alt" on the other?" Geralt punctuated his little joke with a quick, hard squeeze of Iorveth's ass.

Iorveth cackled, returning the favor. "Only if you do the same, you son of a bitch. The V could split the middle. I could do it in a lovely script." He rested his head on Geralt's shoulder, and Geralt did the same to Iorveth, albeit with a little difficulty due to the elf's obnoxious height. Hands and arms slid to waists and shoulder blades again. They'd become comfortable touching these places over the months. They clung to each other for a few stolen moments, twin flames burning in the great hall.

Some frozen winter bird cried out, breaking the spell. Iorveth returned to his bag, still open on the ground. He could feel Geralt starring at his back.

"Walk me to the gate?" 

Geralt paused and looked over at the crouching elf. "Of course. I'dve done it even if you hadn't asked."

A flinch crossed Iorveth's face, and he was grateful to be facing away from the witcher. Once, twice, thrice, the elf went through his sparse things to ensure everything was in place with increasing futility. Eventually, he had to settle back on his heels and fasten the buckles, but he could not heft the bag over his shoulder. How fortunate, then, that Geralt reached around him to take it out from under Iorveth's nose. 

"C'mon. The sun's risen."

"Ah," Iorveth thought. "He wants to be rid of me, after all. That's a relief."

Geralt was already opening the door, and Iorveth had to get up and walk quickly to catch up to the witcher. 

Their feet crunched in unison over the snowy courtyard, each falling into a comfortable step with the other. Soon the snow would be nearly blinding, and the mountain peaks around Kaer Morhen gleamed like jagged teeth. Winter held no forgiveness for fools determined to travel, and Iorveth was determined to prove himself the king of all fools. 

He would walk headfirst into the maw of winter and walk back out again once spring broke through. 

Geralt raised the gate enough for them to walk through, straining against the ice coating the chain and lever. Sheets fell from metal, tinkling against the ground. It put Iorveth in mind of the little silver bells they'd tied to his sister's hair and how they'd jingled on her wedding day. He'd strained to listen as she rode away on her honeymoon, enamored—what a comparison to make, separating to the sound of icy wedding bells. 

They starred at each other, each waiting for the other to make the final move across the threshold out of the strange liminality Kaer Morhen had created. Perhaps if Iorveth stayed, the outside would cease to exist. Eternal winter might settle, with them as kings together over a kingdom frozen in time. 

No magic in the world could do this, and yet, like children, they had pretended it was so. Doorways could hold time still, kisses bound lovers forever, and happy endings were achievable with minimal casualties. This they pretended because if they admitted anything else was true, their hearts would break. 

The gravity of their shared universe and its heat-death drew them together. Iorveth dipped his head, hiding his eyes in silvery hair, his face burrowing into the crook of Geralt's neck. They were warm together, whole, imperfectly imperfect. Silence built itself with the snowfall in drifts. 

"I don't want to leave," Iorveth admitted, surprising himself. He couldn't say it to the witcher's face, but here, holding each other, with the future impending, he could be honest. 

"I know."

"I have to leave."

"I know."

The witcher's eyes slid shut. He tried to memorize the curves and dips of Iorveth's body, take in his smell. He relished the pain in the center of his chest, and pretended it was his heart racing, imagined his body could experience the symptoms of his emotions. It surprised him how comfortable it felt to be held. He felt strangely sheltered, safe, in Iorveth's embrace. 

The elf nuzzled the witcher's neck and felt Geralt sigh into him. They clutched each other tighter as if willing the universe to meld them into one being. Iorveth's heart hammered, and he wished he could project the words in his soul into Geralt's head. He drew a long breath, lips trembling against the witcher's skin. One of his hands climbed upward, tangling in Geralt's hair. 

So strong was his feeling that Geralt could almost feel his mutant heart racing in response to Iorveth's. His mouth opened wide as Iorveth grabbed his hair, and he barely strangled a groan. The hunger Geralt had dreamt stretched its dark roots again, delighted to find new and rich soil. Between them opened a void, aching, yawning, demanding to be filled. He felt Iorveth dig his nails into the witcher's skin, and Geralt did the same. Each man could feel the other's nails cutting crescents into flesh, knew they were too strong to avoid leaving bruises when gripping so tight, but something twisted pain to perverse delight. The embrace shifted, tighter, needier. Iorveth felt the change as well, opening his mouth wider as if to bite the witcher's throat out, tasting cold on his tongue. Geralt gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to do the same. 

What would it take to force Iorveth to admit he is mine? Wondered the wolf in the witcher.

How could I mark this man as mine so no one will touch him? Wondered the fox in the elf. 

Drawing away as little as possible, dragging his cheek along the witcher's neck and jaw, Iorveth moved up to press his mouth against the witchers. Molten shock rolled down their bodies. It wasn't a particularly skillful kiss, nor a romantic one. When the witcher thought about it later, he'd name it something between feral and ravenous. There was no room for shame, for they had drawn too close together for anything to come between them save for the presence of that creeping, dark feeling rooting itself deep within them. Possessiveness, a poet might have called it. 

Iorveth invaded the witcher with his body as if he wanted to drive away all things but him. There were no wars, no pasts, no futures. Geralt responded in kind, infecting the elf with his darkest wants. They touched each other and kissed like the world would end the moment Iorveth's feet left Kaer Morhen. 

Geralt loved Iorveth so much he felt his heart would break, and he wanted to keep him here so severely he had to stop before the thought of Iorveth leaving became unbearable.

He knew this, and yet he could not stop. 

Rational thought whithered and died in the glow of this need. Sweet adoration twisted with carnality, just as the witcher and elf twisted around each other. 

On the tip of Iorveth's tongue, a blade grew, sharp as hate, cold as ice, etched in words unsaid and love unwanted. He had to break away to breathe, their hot breath billowing. He wouldn't have been surprised to see a puddle of melted snow around them- hell, he could have set out safely in his skivvies with the heat they were generating. They panted, eyes still shut against the world, Iorveth trying to bite off the threads of speech weaving themselves together over his mouth. 

"I...," he tried, strangled and barely-speaking. He wanted to free the words, the spell, the truth. He tried again and only managed to exhale. They choked him. Fighting against himself back and forth, Iorveth couldn't tell which part of him wanted what. 

"I can't say it," Iorveth whispered, barely audible, wilting onto Geralt, resting his head back into its favorite angle, mouth pressed against Geralt's throat. His breath felt like fire. Geralt could feel the elf's teeth he'd pressed so close. "I can't." His voice reverberated through Geralt, and the void sucked them ever closer. Even limp as he was, no part of Iorveth separated from the witcher. 

Geralt relaxed his hands a little, running it up and down the elf's spine in as comforting a way as he could manage. He let his winter lover fall apart in his arms, holding him together. 

"Would that you could read my mind," Iorveth muttered. "If I think hard enough, you will know what will not leave my mouth. Such a simple thing, it ought to be easy, but it isn't." If he thought hard enough, the witcher could know that Iorveth loved him, body and soul. He wanted to taste Geralt's lips first and last thing every day, comb his moonlight hair and braid while singing old songs. He loved so hard it hurt.

Inside, Geralt thought it was good that Iorveth did not want to say goodbye. It was a bitter word, and the witcher did not find joy in it. "Don't say it, then, and I won't either," he soothed, catching the end of Iorveth's short braid in his fingers. He would never tire of touching it, inky midnight so dark it shone like an oil slick in bright enough light, a secret rainbow discoverable only by the bravest. 

Releaf unwound in Iorveth's shoulders. Good. It was good the witcher didn't want to hear how Iorveth loved him. There was hope yet for their undoing.

Still, he hurt for his knowing.

Geralt couldn't hold his tongue. "This isn't the end, is it?"

"Of what?" Iorveth queried, voice still muffled by Geralt's skin. If he looked the witcher in the eye, he would cry, and that would not do today. 

With a squeeze, the witcher replied, saying "this, us," with his arms if not his mouth. 

Iorveth chuckled. "Are you worried I can't handle writing to two entire people at once? For shame."

"No," Geralt said, honestly. "But I worry you won't be able to write to me." He breathed heavily, head tilting back to look at a blindingly blue sky. "I have been dreaming," he started. "And in those dreams, I'm in Loc Muinne. It's different. It's somewhere else. You didn't get hurt, but you're there. You saw me off to talk to Letho, and I finish talking to him. I turn around, but you've gone, and I know I'll never see you again."

"Damn you," Iorveth whispered, pulling himself back up. Geralt missed his weight and ached for the sudden untangling of them. However, he did not regret Iorveth's decision, upon meeting that one green eye which had come to mean the world to him. 

"I promise," Iorveth started, trying to keep the thickness of unspent tears from his voice. "You will see me again. I can't promise you much, because I haven't got much to promise, but that I can do." A spark of something arced over their skin as Iorveth spoke. He felt the weight of stories on his tongue, of lore making itself. "Geralt, I will be with you again before the end."

"You too, Iorveth. I will see you again." 

They sealed their compact with a kiss.

The black hole collapsed and exploded into a supernova. They shone.

By the time Iorveth walked away it was fully morning. Geralt's lips stung from kissing. He had to cross his arms and root his feet hard in the snow until they went numb to keep from running after the elf and his departing back. 

Geralt stood in one place and in three times in this familiar spot. He wanted to scream and cry like the small babe he'd been when his mother rode away, a smear of red hair against the landscape. If only he could hold Iorveth until the spring as he had done with Ciri, making her wait before she went back into the wild and wicked world. If he never had to see another person ride away from Kaer Morhen, he would thank every god available to him and maybe invent some new ones. 

Geralt could almost pretend the pain in his chest came from the tattoo and not his heart.

Almost. 


End file.
